Work Text:
June 1968
“Can I talk to you?”
Pete has slipped off his headphones and gauged the moment when everyone else seems more preoccupied leaving the studio before approaching Roger, who has taken his jacket from the mic stand he’d hung it on near the door.
“What now?” says Roger with instant suspicion, shrugging it up onto his shoulders.
“Nothing. I mean, it’s crap, but we’ll get through.” Wait. “Not you. You’re not crap."
Roger raises an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”
“Well.” Now he’s mixed up. What did he want to say? “I mean, there’s only so good you can sound on a throwaway.”
“Wouldn’t need to sing it if we had some other material.”
“It’s nearly there. Anyway, your voice is really, er. Opening up.”
Roger’s brow creases. “You—pay attention to my singing?”
“As far as I’ve got to.” Pete fiddles with his cuff. “Only in here. And playing live.”
So…all the time. It’s obvious, if odd, that Pete’s self-consciousness is making Roger self-conscious. “That’s what you wanted to talk about?”
The studio has cleared out. Pete watches Roger tuck his shirt collar into his jacket collar and runs over the past three days of inadequate sessions. It’s a holdover single—a sign that Pete’s next idea is longer in coming than preferable—and should be dashed off without much effort. Instead, there’s percussion strewn about the booth and everybody is at the end of their rope. Why can’t they get it right? Why is everything so difficult?
“You there?”
“I…yeah.”
“What’s the matter, then? Your hands are shaking.”
Pete makes what feels like five more attempts to speak, but all his words have deserted him. Roger shakes his head and starts to turn. That’s when Pete moves in, wrapping his arms around his waist and going for the spot between his neck and shoulder.
“What the—for fuck’s sake—”
Roger’s hands are on Pete’s chest, but he’s too taken aback to push. He shudders at the warmth of Pete’s mouth on his skin and realises he’s being leant against the wall. “Oh.” His left knee is lifted and hooked over Pete’s hip. “Pete, really—”
But the hold on him tightens, the left hand at the base of his spine, the fingers of the right hand idly plucking, feather-light, above. As if Roger were another instrument. He’s none too pleased by the sensations as Pete starts to move rhythmically against him, his suspenders the only thing Roger can hang onto. Eventually Pete pulls back to look at him with heavy eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
“You haven’t been already?”
“I mean on the mouth.”
“Bloody hell, Pete, why are you doing this?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”
“You’ve just been married, if you forgot.”
“I didn’t. I was hoping that would—make me more normal.”
“Look at you. You’re not sorry.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel.” Pete steps back just enough to keep Roger in place. “She won’t know. This isn’t about her. I see you and John. I’d have to be blind not to.”
Pete hasn’t said anything that isn’t true; he spends twice as much time with the band as with Karen, and what goes on has been confusing him more and more. How many times has he caught sight of them behind stage doors, Roger’s hands in all sorts of places, before remembering to pretend to see nothing? How many little fixes did John do for Roger during their gigs last year, his Edwardian ruff or his bootlace, and soften him in the knees though his face would never show it? Roger didn’t even take up with John until after he and Pete were fooling around, and now the tables are all turned. Does John kiss him? The idea makes Pete sick with envy.
“You don’t know what we do,” mutters Roger.
“Please.” Pete convinces himself he isn’t ashamed to be asking, practically begging. “Once.”
“Nothing’s once with you. You’ve got no self-control.”
“And you’ve got too much these days. I remember when you went round knocking people’s lights out.”
“Oh, that’s a count against me now? Used to be the only way I could get back into my own bloody gang.”
“It’s not a gang anymore. And if it were, you’d look like the leader’s sister.”
They stare hard at each other. There are footsteps down the hall.
“I could break my dry spell.”
“You mean your promise.”
“Put your mouth on me and we’ll be past promises.”
Pete feels himself perk up. Outside, one unfamiliar voice asks where they’re going, answered shortly by others. More footsteps.
“Look, now we’re going to be—”
Pete silences Roger with a kiss, one hand pulling him in by the collar, the other on the small of his back. The footsteps and voices pass by without so much as pausing at the door, but they stay in that position for a good few beats longer. Pete is acutely aware of the non-consensual nature of what he’s done. He’s also aware of the painful grip on his shoulder. He isn’t even surprised to get a knee between the legs, though he does stumble back, the breath knocked out of him.
“You deserved more than that,” grumbles Roger, crossing his arms over himself. Pete nods, dazed, unsure what he’s agreeing to.
“I…”
“If you fucking say you’re sorry, you will get more.”
“I’ve always been a queer, Roger. You know that,” Pete says falteringly. “I love Karen. I still need this.”
“Need what?” Roger’s eyes flick up to slice through him. “Whatever it is, you’re not getting it from me.”
Pete has never been so warm in all his life, and yet he’s shivering. He stands at a loss for what to do with his hands or his eyes or his feet or any part of him. “I—fuck it, I miss you.” No one can accuse him of emotional unavailability now, can they? “This was how we were close, you know, last year.”
“’This’ was a one-off. Hardly that.” Even as Roger twists the knife, the look of his eyes is disarmed. “And I’m not helping you ruin your marriage up top.”
“Don’t you talk to me about ruined marriages. And it wasn’t even close to a one-off. It meant something.” Roger stares long enough for Pete to feel the blood leave his cheeks and find a new destination. “With you and John—I’ve seen all that before.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes, I do. If it were up to him, he’d just be in your trousers twenty-four-seven. I actually care about you.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m writing this beautiful thing for you to sing, for starters.”
“Writing? That’s a stretch, innit? It’s taking you bloody ages to decide what it’s about.”
“You can’t rush genius,” retorts Pete. He must sound a tit.
“Oh, genius. Well, in that case.” Roger glances away to spare Pete the brunt of his disbelief and lets out a sigh. “Another go, then.” When he turns back, Pete is regarding him cautiously. “Come on.”
“Another…you want to…”
“What did I say? Nothing’s once with you. So do it.”
Pete is stunned to have been given consent. “It wasn’t necessarily going to happen again.”
“After all this talk? Don’t insult us both. Now get it out of your system before I change my mind.”
Pete doesn’t allow himself another moment to be flabbergasted. He pulls Roger forward, gripping his jacket pocket and a fistful of his hair. They discover they can spar without a word leaving their open mouths. Roger has a half-formed fist jammed into the crook of Pete’s shoulder; it’s uncomfortable, and it only inspires Pete to tug him in closer. When Roger bites down on his lip, he gasps and opens his mouth wider. Fireworks are going off in his head, aided by the fact their temperatures are running high.
“Can’t fucking stand you,” mumbles Roger. Pete leans back a bit and Roger takes the opportunity to draw away, fixing his rumpled jacket.
“You told me to do it.”
“Christ, because you’re so indecisive you’d spend tomorrow looking at me the way you’re doing now.”
Pete doesn’t want to know how he’s looking. He’s only just realised he’s rubbing the back of his neck. “We should go before anyone else comes by,” he says, the opposite of everything he wants.
“First reasonable thing you’ve said all day.”
They exit the booth and shut off the lights.
“Writing for me. If you’re writing for me, shouldn’t I hear a bit of it?”
“I’m not finished.”
“Oh dear. How can I believe that when I’ve seen you finish in a tick.”
“Stop being mean to me or I’ll kiss you again.”
They step out into the corridor, where there are the muted echoes of work in other studios but thankfully no people.
“I think that threat’s worn itself out. And you’re mean to me all the time.”
“I’m allowed, I’m the songwriter.”
“Can’t stand you,” repeats Roger to himself, then yelps when he’s pulled in round the shoulders and kissed on the side of the face. He extricates himself in a huff. “We’re going outside.”
Pete is grinning, but the number of times he’s felt the need to get this out of his system (in Roger’s words) is a problem not easily solved. Nor are his tangled feelings about who’s sleeping with whom. He can’t stop his eyes lingering on Roger’s back and despairing at how nicely that jacket fits him. Then Roger opens the door and Pete closes his eyes and lets the first wash of the night breeze carry everything else away.