Chapter 93

                                    

                                          
"Look, I don't know what you want me to tell you, Bri," the blonde mumbled, bringing the shortened stick to his lips to take another calming drag when the professor leapt forward and snatched it out of his hand, smashing it into the dish. "Hey! What the hell?"
                          
"I want you to tell me what to do," Brian growled, gripping the back of the armchair to steady himself over Roger who returned the aggravated stare directed down at him. As heated silence penetrated the small room, the professor found it harder and harder to maintain his ill temper, the quiet forcing him to reflect on his outburst and realize that his erratic behavior was more hurtful than helpful to his cause. He quickly relinquished his hold on the piece of furniture and straightened his posture, stepping back into the windowsill—the ash-speckled dish jostling between the professor's backside and the foggy window—and tacking on a soft, "Please?"
                          
The music instructor scoffed and pulled himself up out of the chair, Brian's chest ready to explode as Roger stood before him, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at him in such a way that made the impression he had something to say. However, the blonde defied all expectations and instead said nothing, opting to shake his head and walk away from the professor with an indignant air about him—the dramatic slam of the bathroom door echoing through the entire hotel.
                          
"Roger, come on!" Brian cried, following in his colleague's footsteps and pressing his forehead against the closed door, his hand landing beside it, "I really need your help. I don't know what to do."
                          
Again, the music instructor denied the professor a proper response, the sound of running water replacing the silence that weighed down on both their shoulders.
                          
Brian punched the door with just enough force to express his frustration while also not causing any costly damage—as it surely would have had it been Tim and Roger in that room—and spun on his heels, falling back against the smooth surface and sliding down till he met the floor, legs stretched out in front of him and his hands clasped together in his lap. He sat there, listening to the consistent trickle of water as though it were a symphony, encouraging the professor to tap into his emotions; to dig deep and pinpoint the true source of his agony. 
                          
"I know I have to go back," he finally whispered, finding it impossible to speak any louder—his nerves relocating themselves in his swollen throat while tears threatened to spill from his eyes. "And I know I made a mistake running away with you, Rog, but...I was scared. I'm always scared. That's why I'm here with you right now." He chuckled sadly, feeling like a full-fledged idiot for what he was about to say, but there was nothing to hide anymore—truly nothing. "It's just that, when I'm with you...you make me feel like I really am the King of England, and I suppose the King of England has to do what's right. Right?" 
                          
His plea for affirmation went unanswered, Roger pressed up against the opposite side of the door with tears of his own streaming down his face and a hand over his mouth to mute the pathetic sobs racking his body. 
                          
Brian dropped his head back and closed his eyes, continuing the one-sided conversation with a heavy sigh. "You don't know what it's like to be constantly surrounded by all these kids finding themselves, enjoying life for what it is, and then going home and looking at yourself in the mirror, realizing you're not much older than them and that it wasn't that long ago that you were in their shoes. But when you were in their shoes, you weren't like them. You were alone, miserable, lost...and you thought you made the right decision, securing a job right after you graduated—at least, that's what everyone told you—but you wonder every day if they lied to you; that instead you made the biggest mistake of your life." The professor tilted his head forward, his tired gaze falling upon his hands clasped in his lap, his thumbs mindlessly rolling over one another. "For once, I just want to do the right thing and have it actually be the right thing. You know?"
                          
The blonde sniffled and shifted in such a way that brought him closer to the door, his fingers grazing the sticky surface as though it were Brian's sweat-laden skin. Oh, how he longed to be back in his arms.
                          
"I just wish there was someone who could tell me what that was."
                          
Roger knew that Brian wanted him to try and persuade him that the right thing was to stay with him; to fight for their budding romance and be open to wherever it may take them; to shed the cloak of familiarity that waited for him back in London and don a new, unfamiliar one that existed somewhere far, far away. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't want the same thing.
                          
However, he knew that if he were to sink to the professor's level and ask that of him, Brian would eventually grow to resent him. That child would plague his mind like a deadly disease—reminding him of the awful person he was for wanting to ride out some fling for far longer than it was meant to—and the runaway professor would look at Roger one day and blame him for his wrong decision, too cowardly—as he admitted himself—to show it, and so silently would loathe him for the rest of their time spent together. No bliss, no love, just pure hatred, and for those exact reasons, the blonde couldn't bring himself to say what his colleague desperately longed to hear. 
                          
"I can't help you, Bri," Roger answered, breaking his vow of silence with a voice that could just be heard over the still running water, "You know that."
                          
"It was worth a shot," the professor laughed sadly, turning his head to the side as if to glance back over his shoulder and meet Roger's wavering gaze through the door that kept them apart, "If only things were different, right?"
                          
"Yeah," the blonde whispered, dragging his hand down the door's back and letting it fall to the floor with a barely audible repetition of, "If only things were different."