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Many tend to describe Roger as a polyphonic symphony: a person who consists of many personas, and biologist happens to be one of them. Sure, he spends his time partying, drinking, and shagging, but he still pays attention to his lessons, not because he needs the grades, but because they're interesting. He understands the inner workings of the heart; the aorta pumping oxygenated blood throughout the body, the capillaries that bridge the arteries and veins and the endorphins that it releases when happy. However, science can't explain his feelings towards John Richard Deacon.
John reminds him of the human body: complicated and familiar at the same time. Maybe he's a polyphonic symphony too, since he spends his time tinkering around the house, which explains the fixed clocks, bulbs, and tattered hearts. That, and the additional time he spends working on his base, producing licks, rhythms, and beats for their albums (John deserves a whole album to his bass alone), along with him simply staring into the distance, thinking about god knows what. Roger knows that the sensory neurons pick up information, which then travels along the synapses to the central nervous system where the information is processed, and then finally travelling to the motor neurons through the interneurons. But that alone can't help figure what the hell is on John's mind, the bastard changes his mind faster than him changing women, and this explains why he's sitting on the floor at eight o' clock on a Saturday night.
"Okay, so we have to use a transistor for this amp since we need to switch the electrical signals, not to mention the diodes to adjust the resistance," explained an excited John, hands wildly gesturing to the items. Roger covers his swoon easily with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.
"Mate, you know I don't speak physics. Can you spell out the whole thing in English, please?" He smiles for real this time, trying his absolute hardest not to laugh.
"Shit! I'm so sorry Roger, I forgot for just a second there! Okay, so the transistor acts as our amplifier here for our circuit, while the diodes allow the current to move in one direction due to the anode and cathode present- wait, why are you laughing at me?"
At this point, Roger's on the floor, laughing so hard until he's red in the face, tears pouring down his face. "You-you're so adorable, I swear to god. I fucking love you."
John gasps in shock and Roger lets his own words sink in the silence. "Well, that's not the way I expected this to go," coughs Roger.
!!
"What do you mean you love me?" John mutters while pacing around the room. "Are you in love with me, or the idea of me? What if you see the real me after we start dating and you don't like it and you leave me and-"
"John!" Roger grips on his arm tightly. John stops pacing and just stares, and for a minute, he's out of breath. So this is what it feels like to be still.
A few seconds pass, and then Roger finally speaks. "Okay, I'm just as panicked as you are at the moment, so that's understandable," says Roger, letting a wry chuckle escape. "I don't know if social stigmas will get to us, whether it will break up the band, or ruin our friendship forever. I want to talk about cars and music and science over cheese toast, and we can laugh at Brian together like a couple of odd fools. I won't promise that my womanizing will end immediately, and I don't know if it's the tight space or the room's too hot or simply the serotonin talking, but I fucking love you, John Richard Deacon."
Nothing happens for a while, just the whirring of the radio-amp and the effervescence of the chemical reaction waiting to happen. Roger bites his lip, waiting for an answer. John takes two steps forward, and whispers with a fierce determination, "I want you too, and we can do all of those and so much more. I don't know how long we will even last, but I'd rather go ahead and risk the bashing, the band, everything. I love you too, Roger Meddows Taylor." Roger's vision gets blurry. Fuck. He's not expecting this kind of response, if anything, he thought John would be logical about it. Just when he's about to open his mouth, John steps forward and leans in.
Their mouths are pressed together, fitting together like two cells before mitosis. It's gentle, like John, and tastes like him too. His brain is going berserk, he knows it, and their polyphonic symphonies are coming together in a tremendous crash of arias, trumpets, and the melancholic violin. He opens his eyes, and there's Deaky, his Deaky, smiling at him and he's laughing once again. That is, until the front door opens.
"Hello darlings, I do hope we weren't interrupting anything."
Roger groans. There's Freddie bloody Mercury, shit-eating grin and all, with a spaced-out Brian. "Brian, I believe you owe me 50 quid." Brian's confused, but then he realises.
"Fine," he grumbles, shoving money into Fred's hand, his grin only getting wider. "I'm happy for you two, really I am, but I need to sleep." Brian drags Freddie upstairs, with the latter mouthing that he needs to hear the details.
"Well.." John starts, looking down at his feet. "I think we can continue with whatever this thing is."
Roger slowly smiles. "I think we can. How about dinner next Friday?"