Archive of Our Own

The pair of lungs hit the examination table with a wet squelch. Roger watches trickles of yellowish soup oozing out of the dead tissue onto the silver tray with a disgusted frown pulling the corners of his mouth towards the floor. His classmates observe with similar looks of displeasure marring their features.

He is pretty sure that healthy lungs shouldn’t be coloured this shade of grey.

The professor at the front of the lecture hall pulls on a pair of disposable latex gloves, casting a look over the class.

“So, how many of you smoke regularly?“ he asks.
“Please raise your hands, so I can get an overview. No worries, this will not affect your marks.“

Roger raises his hand along with around ninety percent of the class. It’s not a surprising number, honestly, about everybody he knows, barring Brian, who’s a bit too pure to be human, smokes at least a few sticks a day and that’s fine.

The professor nods slowly, before directing the attention back to the repulsing organ in front of him.

“These are the lungs of a 56-year-old male patient, who was a heavy smoker during his lifetime. As you can see the tissue is severely damaged, losing the rosy coloration as depicted in your textbooks. This stems from deposits of among others tar within the pneumocytes and fibroblasts of the lung. If you now compare with a healthy set of lungs…“

The assistant heaves another tray onto the right side of table, this time holding a pair of squishy rosy organs.
The professor gingerly moves both trays closer together, but it doesn’t take a lot of observational skills to note the difference.

“I will now intubate both samples and conduct a simple ventilation. Firstly the healthy lung, subsequently the characteristic smoker’s lung“ announces the professor and does just that.
The right pair of lungs slowly inflates and expands, before smoothly sinking back to its original form a second after pressure stops being applied.
However the left pair flutters and rapidly blows up like a baggy balloon and deflates like a wet sack.

Roger leans in a bit to take a little strain off of his shitty eyes and is hit with an overwhelming stench of decay almost making him gag.
Don’t get him wrong, he knows that smoking is bad for his health, but for some reason that information has been sitting at the back of his consciousness ever since he was fifteen and never really been important. Everybody smokes, his parents do, his friends do, all the people on the telly and the streets do, so what harm is there in being another brick in the wall?

From the second row, Jenny Tyler raises a hand.
“How did the owners of these lungs die?“ she asks.

The professor indicates the healthy one.
“The owner of this pair passed away in old age, however due to healthy living habits, most organs could be extracted in an overall good condition. These…“ he points at the grayish mass on the other tray “…were extracted after the patient died of terminal metastasizing lung cancer.“

“So, how much did the bloke puff then?“ blurts John Hammond next to Roger and receives a reprimanding glare from the front.

“About a packet a day, for almost forty years.“

Roger thinks about the almost empty packet of Marlboros in his jeans pocket and how he reminded himself to restock for the week just this morning. He thinks about how now that he recalls it, playing the drums seems to be gradually more exhausting, often leaving him wheezing after a particularly long evening of rehearsals.
He thinks about the bouts of coughing at night, that Brian sometimes complains about. ’If you didn’t smoke like a chimney, you’d probably be less congested, you know?’

He feels a bit sick.

At the front, the professor pulls out more gloves.
“If you want, you can put on some gloves and touch!“

Brian is comfortably sitting at the kitchen table and organizing note cards for his term paper when he hears the front door being unlocked. A moment later Roger enters the house and kicks off his shoes. He’s looking a bit frazzled, blond hair all over the place and loose paper spilling out of his book bag.

“Welcome back!“ Brian calls from where he can see the tiny hallway.

“Hey, Bri“ Roger says, hurries over and gives Brian a distracted peck on the lips, before vanishing into the bedroom in a whirlwind of flying sheets.

Brian studies the paper gracefully sailing downwards to touch the floor, before attending to his notecards again. He’s going to make Roger pick up the mess later.

After five minutes he’s disrupted again, this time by a pair of hands banging on the kitchen table. He looks up to his boyfriend bracing both arms on the wood.
Roger stares at him intensely, big blue eyes almost impossibly wide.

“I’m quitting.“ he says.

“What are you quitting?“ Brian asks, putting down his note cards.
“The band? Biology? Our relationship?“

“No, you idiot“ Roger answers “I’m going to quit smoking.“

Brian opens his textbook and finds the section he’s bookmarked for later reading.

“Of course“ he says and that’s that.

Brian doesn‘t expect Roger‘s resolve to last more than two hours. After all the last time the drummer woke up with the hangover of his life he solemnly swore off of alcohol only to get thoroughly pissed with Freddie on the same evening.

But here he sits, three hours later, a quarter through his term paper and Roger‘s humming under his breath and working on some lyrics with no cigarette in sight.

Earlier, right after his startling declaration, he‘s dug up every ash tray and stray Marlboro strewn around the flat and thrown them in the trash together with his favourite lighter.

„Impulse control“ he’s told Brian, before taking the trash out.

Brian doesn‘t think he‘s ever seen Roger without a cig for more than two hours. He‘s starting to get worried.

It’s been four hours since Roger’s last cigarette and he’s feeling the beginnings of a headache
forming behind his eyes.

Rubbing around his eye sockets he fixes himself a cup of coffee before refocussing on the song he’s working on.

Another thirty minutes and he can’t deny that he’s starting to suffer from withdrawal anymore, because the letters are starting to blur and the mild headache is slowly but surely turning into a hydraulic press squeezing at his brain.

The first thing he did after coming out of class this afternoon, was smoking the last two cigarettes in his packet in a last act of rebellion before going to read up on the process of weaning off of nicotine. Frankly, the physical and psychological symptoms of withdrawal don’t sound too appealing, but that is just something he will have to deal with.
At first he’s still had this tiny sliver of hope that his body’ wouldn’t be affected too much but now he’s pretty sure he’s in for a more than unpleasant ride.

He didn’t think that his addiction would come and bite him in the arse this quickly, but in for a penny, in for a pound, he is not going to cave in that easily.
Something as trivial as a simple headache is not going to stop Roger Fucking Taylor from getting what he wants.

The sofa dips when Brian climbs over the backrest to sit behind him. Warm arms wrap around him and he feels his boyfriends hair tickle his neck.

“I read your notes and I guess it doesn’t take that long until you start feeling pretty bad. Do you want me to give you a head massage?“ Brian asks, because of course Brian already read up on the topic and knows exactly what’s ailing him, because that man’s bloody perfection.

“Please“ Roger nods and closes his eyes.

With Brian’s nimble fingers kneading his scalp, the oncoming storm doesn’t seem that important anymore.

It’s been two days since Roger’s last cigarette and John doesn’t quite know what he’s done to deserve this kind of attitude.

“Deacy, you’re fucking up the rhythm! AGAIN!“ Roger yells after the fourth unsuccessful take and hurls his drumsticks across the room, where they harmlessly bounce off the wall.

“I’m pretty sure, you where speeding up“ John says levelly, pulling the strap of his bass over his head and popping the instrument on its stand to relieve his shoulder of the weight.

He can see Roger practically turning into a camp fire behind his drum kit.

“I was NOT speeding up, for god’s sake. You’re just taking way too long with your arpeggios, it’s supposed to be fast, not a snail race!“

“Uhm, actually, John’s right, you were speeding up.“ says Brian from the safety of the control room, holding up a metronome.

“I don’t FUCKING CARE about your BLOODY METRONOME, or your GODDAMN OPINION, BRIAN! You can all go FUCK YOURSELVES!“ Roger screeches, voice going up an entire octave.
If this game of ’poke-the-bear-with-a-stick’ hadn’t been going on for hours now John might have been impressed.

The next second, the drummer’s kicked over several cymbals which clatter to the ground in a cacophony of noise, while he storms out of the room like an enraged fury.

John hears Brian sigh in defeat, probably because it’s the third time Roger’s made his dramatic exit today and nobody really looks forward to having to try and drag him back in kicking and screaming, because please, Rog, we only have the studio for two more hours and we need to get this record done.

It’s about the worst of times for their drummer to decide to go cold-turkey.

He finds Roger outside, sitting against the building’s wall that’s facing the car park, grabbing and pulling at tufts of his own hair.

For a moment John a bit afraid that he’ll get shouted at again, but then Roger blinks at him, looking for lack of a better term like his world is crashing down around him.
John meets his gaze and sits next down to him, waiting for the blond to speak first.

“I’m sorry for snapping.“ Roger says hoarsely.
“I didn’t mean it. You were doing great, I was the one speeding up.“

“It’s okay“ John says trying to sound reassuring.

“My sense of rhythm is complete rubbish today.“ Roger rubs the bridge of his nose.

“It’s okay“ John says again “you’re just having a bad day. We’re not angry.“ Which might be a small lie because he’s seen the storm clouds hanging over Freddie’s head earlier, but there’s no need to provoke the inevitable.

Not meeting John’s gaze, Roger presses the heels of his hand into his eye sockets.

“I’ve had a raging headache for two days and my hands are shaking and I can’t concentrate and I’ve slept for maybe two bloody hours tonight and I just really really need a smoke, but I can’t, because I’m quitting and now I feel like a fucking cock up.“

The confession does make John feel a little guilty for getting fed up with Roger’s antics, so he wriggles closer, until their shoulders touch and says “If you need a breather I can leave you alone for a bit and then we’ll try to record our part again. And if it doesn’t work then it just wasn’t meant to work out today and we’ll try another time.“

“No, this is fine.“ Roger mutters and they sit in silence for a few minutes, until he signals John that he’s ready to go back.

And if John’s not impressed at the drummer’s magical screaming voice, he might be a tiny bit impressed by his stubbornness.

It’s been three days since Roger’s last cigarette and Brian’s worried.

According to the several articles he read, withdrawal symptoms usually peak at around three or four days after the last dose of nicotine and he knows Roger’s not been to university today.
He also believes, that the man didn’t sleep a wink last night, judging from all the tossing and turning from the other half of the bed that still hadn’t stopped when Brian got up to get ready for his own classes this morning.

Unlocking the front door, Brian is prepared for disaster, but apart from a half-empty cuppa on the kitchen counter nothing seems to be out of order. So why is he so nervous?

Making his way to the bedroom feels like running a marathon, at least according to his heart-rate.

“Rog, love? Can I come in?“

The blinds in the bedroom are pulled closed and a faint stench of old sweat wafts up Brian’s nose.

Roger is a shivering lump under the duvet. After hearing Brian call out, he raises his head an inch and tries for a smile, which looks a bit frightening to be honest.

“Withdrawal’s kicking my arse“ he says quietly before dissolving into another bout of tremors.

Brian’s at his side in an instant, crawling onto the bed without bothering to take off his forgotten jacket. He lays down on his side facing Roger who’s curled into a fetal position, afraid that hugging him close will somehow hurt him.

“Hello there“ he greets and wipes a sticky strand of blond hair from the drummer’s forehead where it stuck to his clumpy eyelashes.

“Hi“ Roger whispers.

He looks frightful, white as a sheet and covered in cold sweat soaking through the collar of his shirt.

“How are you holding up?“ Brian asks.

“I tried making tea earlier, after you left.“ Roger says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.
“But I couldn’t drink it because my hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the mug. And then I tried sleeping because that didn’t work last night but I couldn’t sleep either because my stomach hurt.“

He grimaces.

“Is it still bothering you?“ Brian feels a tug at his heart at the thought that the blonde spent the whole night and morning alone and feeling awful.

Roger nods. “It comes in cramps…“
A cramp must have set in right at this moment because his breath hitches and Brian can see all the remaining colour drain from his face. There’s nothing he can do but watch as Roger rides it out with teeth clenched hard enough to bite through metal.
After what can’t have been longer than thirty seconds but feels like hours, he finally relaxes with an exhausted exhale, only for the tremors to start back up with a vengeance.

“I’m going to get you a hot water bottle, alright?“ Brian says breathily. He quickly gets up and makes a bee-line to the bathroom, where they keep their medical supplies.

This time, when he returns he climbs into bed from the other side. Roger accepts the hot water bottle with a whispered ’thanks’ and cradles it to his lower abdomen, sighing in relief when the temperature seems to ease some of the tension.
Brian gently spoons his boyfriend from behind, carefully wrapping his arms around him.

“Is this okay?“

“Yeah.“

Pressed against him he can feel every tiny shiver that wracks the smaller body and feels a bit like a failure, because there is simply nothing he can do to make it easier.
Roger clumsily grabs one of Brian’s hands.

“I feel like my head’s going to split in two.“ he whispers.
“I need a smoke, Bri. I really need it. I’d kill for a cig right know.“

For a person, who turns into a whining mess at the stub of a toe, Roger’s complaints are surprisingly few, so the admission breaks Brian’s heart into tiny little pieces.

“Shh, I know, I know“ he soothes, nuzzling into the blonde’s hair.
“You’re doing so well, love. It’s going to be over soon.“

He wipes a tear from the smaller man’s face and isn’t sure if he’s crying himself.

“Stay with me?“ Roger asks softly.

Brian gingerly squeezes his hand.

“I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not going anywhere.“

It is later, when the worst of the tremors have passed and Roger’s managed to fitfully fall asleep, that Brian allows himself to hobble into the kitchen to get water and a straw, through which it’ll hopefully be easier for Roger to finally drink something. He’s been sweating so much that Brian’s afraid he’ll grow dehydrated by the end of the night.

When he wakes up after two hours of blissfully uninterrupted sleep, Roger gratefully sips at his straw, too exhausted to say anything and though it makes his whole chest ache with compassion to see his boyfriend be in such pain, Brian can’t help but feel a sense of incommensurable pride at his determination to push through.

“Thank the maker, you’re so bullheaded.“ he tells him, voice shaking, while gingerly wiping his face with a wet cloth. “I can’t imagine going through this and here you’re doing it, fighting yourself and winning.“

The drummer’s eyes crinkle with a tiny smile.

“I guess I just really don’t want to die of lung cancer before I get to spend every moment I can with you.“ he says and he might be a little delirious from exhaustion, but Brian still wonders how on earth he deserves a boyfriend like Roger.

It’s been five days since Roger’s last cigarette and he’s doing alright.

As in, he still mostly hangs around the bed or the couch and he‘s gross because he hasn’t showered in three days and he hasn‘t taken a good shit in five so he‘s also a bit weirded out.
Sometimes his stomach still cramps up and his head hurts something fierce, but apart from that his thoughts are infinitely less of a jumbled mess and he can read through his written notes in peace.

Because in the inevitable boredom that is a Sunday afternoon he is actually trying to make up for his lost Friday at university. If he isn’t careful he’ll be turning into a younger, more irritable version of Brian. Who is skipping his usual hot date with the library to study with his gross boyfriend at home. How this man exists without a halo hung above his head remains a mystery.

He must have turned into a dog instead, because the front door opens and immediately his nose picks up the sweet sweet scent of burned tobacco swirling in through the doorway and tickling his senses like the magical pull of bacon in the morning.
Immediately his palms become sweaty.

“Good afternoon, my boys.“ Freddie calls out in greeting, waltzing into the flat with Deacy on his heels. The bassist is carrying several plastic bags and nods at Brian and Roger acknowledgingly, though pulls up short when he notices Roger starring at him like he’s a piece of home-made apple crumble fresh out of the oven.

He puts the plastic bags on the table and takes a step backwards, frowning.

“No offense, Rog, but you look like you’re about to eat me.“ He says, quickly checking himself as if looking for the source of the other’s unblinking gaze.

Roger knows that Deacy must have been smoking before entering the flat and has the overwhelming urge to jump him and burry his face in his clothes.

Oh, what he would do for a cigarette right now. He’s pretty sure he’s promised Brian to be his slave for the next month if he just bought him one sweet glow stick, but the man remains adamant in seeing this whole ordeal to the end without relapses.

What a pity, Roger would have made an excellent slave. As soon as he gets these increasingly dodgy fantasies of lovingly wrapping his lips around a cigarette and taking a long hard pull out of his head.

He wants to yell at Deacy to put on a different shirt, but then again, Brian says that cravings usually don’t last longer than twenty minutes and if he ignores it, or distracts himself, it’ll pass.
He certainly hopes so, because if it doesn’t, no one is stopping him from ambushing their bassist.

He somehow manages to wrench his eyes away.

“Oh it’s nothing, I just like starring at your lovely luscious locks, Deaks.“

Deacy laughs, a subdued but genuine little thing.
“Blimey. Should’ve known you’ve got a hair kink, I mean look at Brian.“

“Hi, Fred. Nice to see you, Deacy.“ Brian waves.
“What you’ve got there?“

“Offerings of peace for our little drummer boy.“ Freddie says and presents them with heaps of take-out and junk food. “We heard that a bit of distraction is in order?“

“You are an actual angel, Freddie.“ Roger blurts and spends the rest of the afternoon too busy with greasy food to focus on Deacy’s amazing smoky shirt.

The weirdest thing about nicotine withdrawal is that he’s always hungry.

Roger‘s never imagined that peanut butter of all things could taste so bloody good, honestly he‘s been missing out.

He tells Brian so.

“Uh-huh“ his boyfriends says and continues scribbling into one of his million notebooks. They‘re wedged into the right corner of the sofa because the left side is occupied by unironed laundry and Roger‘s munching on what must be his fifth peanut butter sandwich today.

“This is horrible“ he complains, swallowing and reaching for a lollipop.
“All I do nowadays is eat rubbish. I‘ve already gained like ten pounds and it‘s only been three weeks!“

He pulls his shirt up and pokes at the little tummy that is slowly getting in the way of comfortably buttoning his pants. He also makes Brian poke at it just to make a point.

“I’m gonna be fat by the end of this“ he whines and drapes himself over the guitarists lap “you’re gonna kick me out of the band because I look like a beached whale and all the ladies will be scared off.“

His boyfriends leans down to gather him in a hug.

“You’re not fat, love.“ Brian reassures him.
“You’re doing very well actually, I haven‘t seen you touch a cigarette in those three weeks and I think that‘s amazing. You‘re amazing.“

Roger almost cries as he burries his face in Brian‘s curls and breathes in the scent of coconut shampoo.

“But if you want to lose weight you could always start exercising, you know?“ Brian chuckles and Roger hits him.

He hasn’t been for a jog since grammar school, deeming drumming enough exercise now that he does it regularly. But ever since Brian’s comment yesterday the idea of starting to do sports has become more and more appealing, which is why he’s now standing on the curb in front of the house, wearing old trainers and a track suit that he didn’t know he owned but miraculously still fits. He’s actually a bit nervous.

Okay, Roger. You got this! he silently chants to himself. There’s no moment like the present. Time to get moving.

He manages half a circuit around the local park, before he has to stop in the middle of the path with both hands braced on his knees and gasping like a fish on dry land.

Good lord, his stamina must be worse than his granddad’s. Three minutes and he’s already having the stitches of his life.

One of the prim looking joggers that frequent the park comes to a halt next to him.

“Are you alright, mate?“ the woman asks worriedly.

“Yeah…. fine…“ Roger squeezes out, only seeing the woman’s garish pink trainers and trying to catch his breath. He doubts she can see his embarrassment, because his face must already be horribly red and disgusting from exertion.

“Do you need some water?“ Jogger-woman asks.

“God yes!“ he accepts the proffered water like a token from the messiah himself and guzzles half the bottle before realizing how improper he must come across.

“Sorry“ he apologizes sheepishly and quickly wipes his mouth “sorry, I’m new to this. I don’t understand a thing about running.“

She gives him an understanding nod.
“Well everybody has to start from somewhere.“ she says encouragingly “Just keep at it and you’ll be running laps in no time! Also try breathing in through your nose and out through the mouth, that’ll spare you the stitches.“

Roger meets her again when he’s back on the track a day later, eventually being able to overcome the urge to just stay at home and eat chips or finally smoke a goddamn cigarette.

Her name is Sarah and she gives him a smile and a thumbs up every time he meets her in the park. Strangely enough, this friendly reminder that he’s actually doing something good for his body for once is enough to encourage him to stuff his feet back into his trainers and struggle through excruciatingly exhausting laps around the park.

And after a while running does become more and more easy. Roger notices how it starts to take much longer before he has to take a break and how he stops having to drag himself home, almost too knackered to move.

He’s actually starting to feel good after a nice swift jog. Energized and less tired during the rest of the day.

The best thing is that his omnipresent craving for nicotine seems to be less pronounced after burning off some energy, which in turn does wonders for his mood.
It doesn’t take long for the rest of the band to notice.

“You’re so full of energy lately, Liz“ Freddie tells him during rehearsals, after he’s ripped through an epic drum part without breaking a sweat.
“Practically glowing like a star, that’s what you’re doing, I absolutely love it!“

“You’re gorgeous“ Brian whispers in his ear when he passes the guitarist to grab something to drink.

Roger smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

It’s been a month since Roger’s last cigarette and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t been able to breathe this freely in years.

It’s been two months since Roger’s last cigarette and Freddie is too young and beautiful to deal with this.

“He’s gone mad!“ Brian exclaims, slumped over Freddie‘s kitchen table in a curly heap.
„Absolutely bonkers!“

Freddie puts a fresh cup of tea in front of him and pats his head.

“There, there“ he soothes and takes a seat next to him.
“Tell me why you‘re boyfriend‘s supposedly mad.“

Brian heaves a sigh and takes a generous sip of tea.

“He gets up at six every morning, Fred.“

“Well, so do you.“

“That’s beside the point. Roger never gets up before ten and that‘s when he has obligatory lectures at half past ten. But now he‘s up at six. To go for a jog! A jog!“

At this the guitarist throws his arms up in emphasis, forcing Freddie to lean back in order to avoid being slapped in the face.

But Brian‘s not finished.
“And then he comes back and makes himself disgustingly healthy fruit-yoghurt bowls for breakfast. Sometimes it‘s even smoothies. And he always makes enough for both of us. My skin hasn‘t been this clear in months!
Last week I bought crisps and asked him if he wanted to order pizza for dinner and he made vegetable stir-fry instead. Roger can‘t even cook and he made stir-fry without gutting himself. Do you understand the gravity of the situation, Fred? I felt so bad the whole evening because I was eating crisps and greasy pizza and he was snacking on carrots. Bloody carrots!“

He finishes his tea in another long drag.

“And have I told you about the way he looks? Do you have any idea what it does to me when he comes back from exercising, all flushed and shiny? And don‘t get me started on the muscles, I swear he could pop my head right open between those thighs-...“

“Please don‘t drool on my table, dear.“

Brian makes a frustrated noise.
“I’m going to die from blue balls.“

“So he‘s become a bit of a health-nut, what‘s so bad about that?“ Freddie asks gently.

Brian forehead meets the tabletop with a dull thud.

“Never mind, Fred. At this rate, it‘s me who‘s going to go mad.“

It’s been three months since Roger’s last cigarette and Brian is freaking out in the kitchen.
“Don’t you think you’re going a bit overboard with this?“ he finally gathers the courage to ask. It’s half past seven in the morning and Roger’s just coming out of the shower after his morning jog. Brian’s been mentally preparing himself for this talk for hours, twitchy enough to be considered a flight animal.

“What do you mean?“ asks Roger, while pulling some berries and milk out of the fridge.
His hair’s still dripping from the shower and he’s only wearing a towel which, in typical Roger-fashion is slung very low on his hips and close to falling off, revealing a hint of hipbones and a fine trail of curly blond hair vanishing downwards. When he reaches for the cutlery drawer the muscles in his arms, developed from years of drumming, shift beneath his flushed skin and Brian swallows.

Get a grip, Brian, you are not a horny teenager!

It’s been years and yet he still goes mad at the sight of his boyfriend in various states of undress.

He shakes his head.

“This“ he says and gestures towards the fruit bowl Roger sets down in front of him, before munching on his own leaned against the counter.

“What, just because I splurged a bit and got the organic raspberries?“ Roger huffs jokingly and pops a piece of banana into his mouth.

Brian runs a hand through his hair. How is he going to do this?

“No, I meant the whole reinvention thing you’ve got going on.“ he begins, avoiding eye contact by staring at the little grapes in his fruit bowl.
“The getting up at the crack of dawn and going to bed at ten. And the bloody healthy food. It’s so unlike you.“

He sees Roger stiffen out of the corner of his eye and cringes. So much for being subtle. For being an astrophysics student on top of his class he’s surprisingly good at saying the wrong things at the wrong time.

“So just because I am actually taking care of my body now it’s too weird for you?“ says Roger, a bit icily.

“No, I-“

“Because I for one am feeling pretty damn good, you know? I don’t have to take as many breaks during band practice anymore, I’m not tired all the time, I haven’t had coughing fits in weeks and you said yourself that I smell better, so what’s your deal, Brian? Have I become too boring for you now?“

“No“ Brian says, struggling to find the right words.
“I don’t think you’re boring at all, you’re the most interesting person in my entire life, Rog! And I don’t want you to change your habits because I can clearly see how brilliant you’re doing! I just don’t want you to deny yourself to have some fun once in a while, because you think it’d be bad for you.“

He gets up and pulls Roger into an embrace, hoping that he won’t be denied this physical contact after screwing up earlier. But the drummer is quick to hug back and put his face in the crook of Brian’s neck.

“I’m worried that you’re avoiding parties and film nights on purpose.“ He elaborates, thinking about how Roger’s been skiving off Scrabble wars at Freddie’s or the semester closing party a week earlier.
“Because I know you enjoy get-togethers, but you haven’t been going out at all lately even though I know you want to. That’s what I worry about!“

“You worry way too much, Bri.“ Roger mumbles against his neck and pulls him closer and for a moment they just stand there and hug.

“I was avoiding parties at first, because I read that you should avoid situations that trigger your bad habits. Well, you know me, I’m a literal chimney when I drink, so I thought, if I just stop exposing myself, it’d be easier. And it really was.“

“You haven’t been complaining about craving a smoke for weeks.“ Brain remarks and feels his heart swell with pride.

“I know, because I haven’t. Been craving that, I mean. Honestly, I don’t think about it all that much anymore.“ Roger smiles, still leant against him.
“But every time I consider going out, I’m afraid that I’ll slip as soon as someone offers me a cigarette and then all of this would be down the drain. You know I have horrible self-control, Bri. You know I’m fucking weak when it comes to peer-group pressure.“

Brian grabs the blond by his shoulders and fixes him with a sober look.

“Roger Meddows Taylor.“ he says.
“The last three months have proven to me that you are the most determined and strong person I know. You single-handedly turned half of your life around and never looked back and I admire you so much for being able to do that.“

“I had a little help“ Roger says, but he’s beaming brighter than the sun at Brian’s words and soon they’re hugging again, bodies pressed close to each other as if they were meant to fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

“I am so proud of you, my love“ Brian says, pressing a kiss on top of his boyfriend’s head. “And I’m sure that you’ll have no problems in telling people no. And even if you struggle, I’ll be there to help. I promise. I know you can do it!“

Roger leans into his chest.

“I love you“ he says.
“Brian Harold May, you are bloody amazing and I love you.“

“And I you, Rog. And I you.“

Brian might never know what he did to deserve this, but there is no way in hell he will ever give up what they have, Roger and him.

It’s been three months and five days since Roger’s last cigarette and he’s wrecking everybody at Scrabble.

“Take that, you wankers!“ he exclaims triumphantly after niftily putting down the last letter to ’zygapophysial’.

Next to him Freddie groans exasperatedly tosses his tiles onto the board.

“I’ve had enough of this humiliation.“ he whines and rolls to get up.
“Who wants a glass of wine?“

„Yes please, I’ll have a glass!“ Roger raises a hand.

“Me too.“ Brian says.

“Only if it’s the good one.“ says John and Freddie rolls his eyes.

“’only if it’s the good one’ he says. As if I have no class. Be grateful that I deem you worthy enough to share my nice Bordeaux with.“

Grumbling the singer disappears into the kitchen of his apartment.
Roger hums and reaches over Brian to fish a piece of carrot out of the snack bowl.

The guitarist reaches out to do the same and a rather loud ’pop’ echoes through the living room.

“Was that your arm?“ John asks tentatively.

“My shoulder“ Brian winces, gingerly rolling the joint.
“God, I’m getting rusty.“

Roger shoves the piece of carrot into his mouth and pats his other shoulder knowingly.

“Maybe you should join me on a morning jog some time.“ he suggests on a whim.
“Might loosen up your old-lady joints.“

Brian tilts his head in silent contemplation.

“You know what?“ he says “Maybe I will.“