Chapter Text
“Fuck!”
Brian ground forward, feeling the uncomfortable friction unyielding as his fingers turned white with the strain against the neck he was clutching. He was so close, just a twist more and- and-
“Should we take a break Bri?” Roger turned to face the guitarist with a concerned look, tapping his drumsticks against each other.
His face was slightly flushed from irritation, waving his hand in a dismissive manner to tell Roger to do whatever he damn well pleased.
Blinking at the clock in exhaustion, Roger sighed and ran his fingers over the edge of the drum. With the rural nightsky he could see the moon gazing through the roof windows in the studio- pearly light draped over the tangle of wires, scrapped paper and other miscellaneous junk from recording.
Brian hummed again, frustrated, Roger could tell from how he was biting his lip too hard to be pleasurable. The Red Special was giving him grief after being packed away from the journey to Rockfield Studios, and knowing its significance to Brian he could hardly blame him. He kept muttering about problems: the wrong tuning, or taut strings, or even once which made John snort was the “inappropriate moisture” at the farm studio. Brian had shot him an exceedingly nasty look that made Freddie’s eyebrows raise and John to go very quiet.
“C’mon Bri, it’s practically morning and you’re still holding that like it owes you money.”
Rodger hopped off his drum stool, shoving the sticks in his back pocket.
“It’s just not-“ Brian spoke through clenched teeth “-not quite there yet.”
It’s not that Roger didn’t understand him, once when he’d broken through a drum he’d been up until breakfast stripping, cleaning and rebuilding. But he was beginning to worry over the dark circles under Brian’s eyes, and the way he had to count his breaths to stay calm, and the way his hands were trembling and-
Well, at least he would say that he didn’t want to deal with his bitchiness in the morning from lack of sleep.
He sauntered behind him, knowing well that despite Brian’s cool demeanour when in a temper he was jittery and rash. Opting for the subtle approach, he lay his hand lightly on his shoulder and pouted.
“Please Brian I need my beauty sleep. I can’t keep up looking like this if we’re up every morning.”
“You could have gone back with John and Freddie,” Brian worried his lip and his hands paused over the frets.
Sighing melodramatically, Roger patted his back and stepped in front of him.
“How else would I hear your killer solos before the others then?”
The pout was apparently effective, as Brian gave one last mournful look at the Red Special, then lifted her off his shoulders delicately before walking over to the case. Brian’s sigh reminded Roger of the look Freddie had given him before he left for the night, frowning at him before glancing to Brian, as if expecting something.
“What time is it?” he asked, closing the lid of the case reverently then starting to leave with Roger, flicking the power switches as he went.
“Early morning I guess, it’s still dark, so theres that.”
Roger didn’t mind sleeping late, if only for a better reason. John sensibly had left at the first stoke of midnight, deciding that whatever Brian was hot about was just not his problem.
Closing the wooden door behind them, Roger could hear the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet in the near-blackness. If he squinted he could see maybe a brush of pink on the horizon, but then again it might just be his tired eyes.
The walk to the house was quiet, except for their footsteps. Underneath the sounds of the night Roger could hear the faint humming of his friend, out of pitch and tune but recognisable. Someone had left the hall light on for them, good for Brian as he locked the front door behind them, not so good for Roger as he still managed to thump his foot into the inconveniently placed coat-stand next to them.
The household had a slumbering quality to it in this liminal hour, seemingly empty but alive with heaving breaths of the others sleeping. The clock downstairs ticked faintly through the floorboards, almost in time with the drum of Rogers fingers against the doorknob to his room as he heard Brian open his with a hush. There was this image, plastered in his mind like a garish wallpaper, that was impossible to ignore- although it was far easier on the eyes. It was the way Brian’s face had screwed up in concentration while playing- that was it. Not in frustration or confusion, like when a chord was in disorder to the whole tune, but when Brian was totally and wholly engrossed- that was some kind of magic. His head would cock to one side, his gaze fixed upon the guitar; occasionally biting his lip, subconsciously, as his fingers drifted from one fret to the next. If that wasn’t enough, his hair- the curls of his hair would fall from his shoulders as he swayed with the music, flicked from one side as he tossed his head in satisfaction when he ripped out a pretty pleasing note. It wasn’t like Roger was memorising this: not the way his eyes would flick back and forth along the neck of the guitar, or how his stance would slowly change as the rhythm grew in crescendo- bending like the Red Special was weighing him down with its voice.
It wasn’t anything like that at all.
“Hey- um...” Roger spoke softly, partly in not wanting to wake anyone else up, partly anxious if he was actually heard.
Still facing the door, Roger turned his head around to avoid looking too worried, catching Brian’s glance at his through the open door behind him.
“You played good tonight, y’know despite everything wrong with...” He nodded firmly, beaming a smile- “it was good.”
He averted his gaze to the windowsill where the curtains were mostly drawn, hosting one of the houses many taxidermied fauna in the strange bell-jars. A blackbird peered back at him.
“Thank you Rog,” Brian smiled with closed lips, the time finally wearing on his face, “we’ll get it right tomorrow.”
Despite the sleepiness in his eyes, Brian’s look made Roger hold his breath a little. Tired jitters, he thought, his toes curling in his shoes as he traced the curves of Brian’s smile with his eyes.
“Right then. Goodnight.”
Roger turned back briskly, flinging his door open perhaps a little too hastily for four in the morning, and trotting inside as he heard Brian’s softly click shut.
The house fell back into its undisturbed silence, even the floorboards sighing from the old creaks of the settling foundations. The meadows behind the farmland quieting, the twilight hours before the dawn slumbering.
And Roger resting his head against the door, rapping his fingers against his knuckles, breathing.
~
“Erm, what are you doing?”
Brian watched with veiled curiosity as the drummer- Roger, he remembered- paused whatever he was doing to look up at him. He readjusted the strap to his Red Special for the fourth time, hoping he hadn’t noticed, as he smiled down at him faintly.
“I’m tuning it?” Roger said with a cocked expression, resuming the twiddling of his fingers along the metal lugs of the drum.
Brian shifted uncomfortably, normally used to new drummers immediately whacking the thing with as much force as possible. He was meeting up with this guy in hopes of starting a group- a student band- he winced at, knowing the cliche. He had responded to Brian’s notice, well at least his mate had, who said Roger was decent and wanted to give it a go. But still, Brian thought as he watched his nimble fingers trace along the rim of the drum for abnormalities, this guy knew what he was doing. In this unprecedented waiting time he had between setting up and practice, Brian took the time to study the drummer. He was short, by his standards quite short indeed, and had a lithe figure he guessed as a result of the exercise of music. Rogers hair fell to his shoulders, laying heavy on them in waves of golden blonde- not stringy like some other guys who looked like they hadn’t seen running water in weeks, but very soft and light. Falling slowly across his neck as he twisted his head to get a better look at something, and enveloped his face to where Roger periodically brushed it away from his cheekbones.
“Right, what do you want to start with?”
Roger shifted again on his seat, his cocky attitude a veil Brian had guessed for the twitchiness in his fingers. Brian began to strum a few chords to something rock and roll, a pretty standard exercise he used to practise. He glanced over briefly, seeing Roger biting his lip and bouncing his head with the rhythm before he began his own tune. Soon, the average rhythm began to take shape, its depth bolstered by Rogers well-timed additions. His eyes met Brian’s a couple times as they harmonised, big and blue and reflecting what he saw in them, and they lit up as Brian wrangled a long wail from the guitar. The two reflected each other’s melodies in a call and response, he suppressed a gasp as Roger rolled his wrists and the fluid drum beats followed. His style was incredibly unique, and as Brian noticed by the way he closed his eyes as he drummed to feel the music, it was also very good. His eyes drifted away from the guitar to how toned his arms looked when he was performing, fingers twirling his drumstick before hitting hard- Brian’s fingers slipped and the Red Special winced out a sour note. He snapped his gaze back to himself, trying to get back into the music rather than giving a virtual undressing to the potential new drummer- what was he thinking? They rounded off with a flourish, a long harmony between the Special and Roger who twirled in his seat.
“That was not just me, that was great!”
Roger was staring right at him, chest rising and falling quickly as he raced with energy- Brian almost couldn’t say anything, too pinned by his gaze before he choked out- “Yeah that was fantastic!”
Hashing out the details over the band with Roger was easy, he understood the practicing and performing routine well. As he began to pack away the Special, Brian glanced back at Roger tapping his fingers against the drum softly, his legs still shaking from the music.
“Do you- do you wanna get a drink or something?”
Brian asked, mentally cursing himself.
“Yeah- yeah, that would be nice.” Roger nodded, putting off packing up his equipment in favour of almost knocking over his stool to walk over to Brian. Brian laughed under his breath at the almost inaudible squeal Roger made, and his rapidly rising blush- pretending to ignore his own as Roger began chatting about the acoustics of a drum kit.
This could be the start of something then. Brian pondered, remembering Rogers subtle flair while rehearsing, the way he grinned to himself when he hit the right note in time with Brian’s own music.
This could be-