Chapter Text
Roger knows he's screwed whenever John so much as glanced at him, but he refuses to admit it. After all, John can't possibly feel the same way. Fred talks about romance novels all the time and now that he really thinks about it, they have a pattern to them. The plot and the characters may be different, but the formula is always the same. It always starts with the lasting looks, the smiles (his damn smile always got to him), but then it gets more intense with the lingering touches, the holding hands, he could go on and on. Right now, he's in stage one: the looks and smiles. Looks like he needs to work a ton to get into stage two.
When he arrives at the studio, he notices that he's the only one present. Fred's always late anyway, but he's surprised to see that Brian, the self-proclaimed 'responsible one' (the man wears clogs!) is late. "Oh well," he mutters to himself, "Might as well work on my song." After what seemed like an hour of drum-thrashing, he heard footsteps of one John Deacon. He can't believe he even knows the way he walks. He needs a fucking drink. Where does Fred keep the lager?
"I like your song." Fuck.
He hates this. The awkward silence looming over them, like a dark cloud. Under the morning light, John's irises look like they're on fire. Burning with what, he's not sure.
"Th-thanks." was all he managed to stutter out. "Didn't you and Brian judge me for it though?"
"Yeah, mainly because of the title? I'm In Love With My Car, really Roger?"
"It's a-"
"A metaphor, we know." he smiles at him, and Roger Taylor, the self-proclaimed ladies man, is stunned with silence. Damned smile.
The biologist within would have said that it was the dopamine, the norepinephrine, and the serotonin kicking in, driving him insane with love, making his heart race and cheeks flush profusely, which is exactly what is happening now. The romantic within would have said fuck it, you're in love. Both sides scared him.
"Hey Rog, you okay?" John asks, his voice soft.
"Y-yeah. Just hot, that's all."
The other breathes out a sigh. "Take a breather, mate. We need our loud-mouthed drummer around, and we can't lose that."
Roger grumbles out a "Yes, mother," before padding off to the kitchen. That is, until John stops him.
"What now, John? You said that I needed to rest."
"Yeah, I know, I just wanted to say to um, actually I forgot what I was going to say." His eyes are crinkled in confusion and frustration as he tries to remember.
John, forgetting something? His fever must be really bad.
"Well, I'd better get going. I haven't eaten breakfast yet and I need sleep. Tell Fred and Brian that I'm not practicing today."
"Um, sure mate. Get well soon, and I'll come over later with a blanket and hot soup. I'll make minestrone, your favorite."
Fuck, they need to get married.
"Thanks mate," he attempted to mimic John's smile, knowing that it will never be like John's. "But can you get your hand off my arm? I need two of them to eat breakfast."
"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry Roger! Yeah, I'll make you some breakfast. What do you want? An omelette? Scrambled eggs on toast?"
As John rambles on and on about breakfast options, Roger's giddiness washes over him, enveloping him in warmth and beauty and just John.
"So this is what love feels like," he mutters so that John doesn't hear. "I can get used to it."