Roger wiped the single tear that the memory pulled from his eye and angrily threw his drumsticks aside, standing up from the drum kit and shouting at the top of his lungs before destroying the setup piece by piece, pushing the drums over and chucking the cymbals across the room. Freddie was lucky enough to enter the room just in time for the hi-hat to crash into the wall by the door, the dark-haired man yelping in fear and dropping the pack of cigarettes he'd acquired from the ruffians Brian had sent him to.
"Jesus Christ, Roger!" the terrified man shrieked, staring at the blonde whose chest rose up and down rapidly and whose hands were clenched into fists by his sides, "You couldn't have waited one more bloody second to lose your shit?" He bent down and snatched the 20-pack that only contained half of its intended quantity. "I was gone for less than an hour...and I even came back early, hoping I would've walked in on something. What the hell happened?"
"I know where I went wrong, Fred," he croaked, ignoring Freddie's remark and clutching onto his blonde locks as he sat back down on the only piece of his kit still standing—his stool, "It was that stupid day in July, back in '65. If he just...If I didn't...I don't know why I let him..." Before the blonde's meandering thoughts could fully develop, his friend's words finally hit him. He lifted his head and brought his eyes to meet the dark-haired man's gaze. "Wait, what were you hoping to walk in on?"
Freddie's eyebrows knit together. "Didn't Brian come and see you?"
"No," the blonde revealed suspiciously, "Why would he?"
His friend scoffed. "That fucking coward." He made his way over to Roger and leaned against the wall, pulling a long white stick out from the box and offering it to him. The blonde instinctively accepted it, still staring at the dark-haired man in anticipation of a better answer that seemed like it would never come while he extracted a lighter out of his back pocket and lit his cigarette for him. He did the same for himself and took a deep drag from it, Roger reluctantly mirroring him. Freddie blew a puff of smoke out to the side and muttered, "I asked him to do one thing, one thing."
"What, did you ask him to tell me that he likes me so I'd believe you?" the music instructor guessed, tilting his head back and exhaling his smoke into the air above him.
Roger chuckled at the thought of his friend begging the professor to throw away his morals and his upbringing and be with a man he only met weeks ago—a man so broken he can't even admit that his boyfriend hit him, lying to everyone who asks by saying he fell down the stairs. You get a small bruise on your knee from falling down the stairs, not a black eye, a handful of small brown splotches on your neck, and a scar that runs up your entire torso.
"You know it's not going to make a fucking difference if he tells me or if you tell me, right?" he remarked, daring to meet his friend's narrowed gaze. "Because I already know how he feels, and I know he thinks he wants to be with me, but he doesn't. He's just confused."
"What does that make you, then? Huh?" Freddie questioned, turning towards his friend and folding his arms over his chest, his cigarette pinched between his fingers, "I know you, Roger. There's no way a man like him became infatuated with you without you doing what you do."
"And what do I do, Fred?" the blonde retorted angrily, rising from the drum stool and matching the dark-haired man's stance.
"You know what you do, Rog."
"Yeah, but what is it exactly? I want you to tell me. I want to hear you say it."
The dark-haired man gulped, the tension between the two of them unbearably unrelenting. He straightened his posture ever so slightly and answered lowly, "Well, Roger, you like to be pushed around, bent over tables and desks, and dressed up like a girl so that men don't feel as guilty or ashamed when they fuck you behind their wives' and girlfriends' backs. Does that sound about right to you?"
"Sounds perfect," the blonde growled.
Freddie rolled his eyes. "Even so, you and I both know that's not what you want to do anymore." He grabbed onto his friend's upper arms and gave him a slight, ill-received shake, "Look, the only way you're going to leave that life behind is by admitting that Tim hurt you and leaving his arse. He's toxic for you, babe."
"I know he is." The dark-haired man's eyes widened at the surprising confession, having expected at least some form of pushback, but Roger gave none. Instead, he brushed past his friend and drew another drag from his cigarette, saying, "But it's not like I can just leave him and be with Brian. It's not as easy as that."
"And give me one good reason why the hell not," Freddie argued, too stubborn to let up on this issue. He'd stood by for far too long, watching Roger be reduced to nothing as he was passed from stranger to stranger and returned home at the end of the night with a few more dollars to put into his and Tim's pockets. He knew that life for people like them wasn't easy, but the way Roger went about it was simply degrading and demoralizing, and no matter how hard Freddie tried to get him to see that, Tim would always convince him that there was nothing wrong with the way they lived.
It was as clear as day to Freddie who the problem was in the situation, and if he could just get Roger away from him, he swore things would be different, better even. He just needed to find the right person, and that person was down the hall, sneaking out of the janitor's closet with the headmistress and kissing her on the head before she retreated upstairs to her office, leaving him to linger in the basement, guiltily staring down the hallway.
Roger looked back at his friend indignantly after a long pause in their conversation, responding with words so sharp Freddie could almost feel them piercing his skin, "Because he and I are from two different worlds, Fred. He's not ready to be with someone like me; hell, I don't even think he's ready to be with Chrissie, and he's been with her for god knows how long!"
The dark-haired man couldn't hold back the fit of laughter that overcame him, finding the parallels between Roger and Brian and their hindrances in regards to their possible relationship hilarious.
"What are you laughing for?" Roger snapped at him, bringing the cigarettes to his lips again and taking in a nervous, nicotine-filled breath.
"Oh nothing, darling," Freddie replied, calming down from his episode and sighing in relief, "It's just...I've never seen you scared about anything in your entire life. Except maybe the time you thought you'd lost that hideous yellow and purple monstrosity you call a tie."
"Oh, would you cut it out, Fred? This is serious!" The blonde kicked one of his drums on the floor out of his way and sat down on the edge of the piano bench. "This gig was supposed to be my fresh start, my chance to be someone else—"
"But Brian is your chance, Roger! That's what I've been trying to tell you! This teaching position you've got yourself into is only a part of it, but Brian—"
"Whoa," a third voice joined the conversation, the pair turning their attention to the door that had been cracked open and the face peeking in. "What happened in here?"