Work Text:
…
It started like it always did, in the dead of London’s night. John’s hands were deceptively light on the steering wheel. Roger was smoking a cigarette without having wound the van windows down, in the passenger side.
The glimmer of the streetlights, as they passed in the windows and again in the mirrors, made John feel dizzy. Taking one hand off the steering wheel to rub his eyes, he exhaled, and then inhaled, his lungs filling with Roger’s smoke. He could feel Roger’s heavy eyes on him, half-lidded with drink, head lolling and tilted on the headrest.
“Open the window,” muttered John, finally.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the vague movement of Roger taking another drag. He didn’t open the window. Instead, John suddenly felt the sensation of a hand on his thigh, so startling that his foot jerked on the brake.
“Roger!” he barked, hands tightening on the wheel. Roger hummed, hand shifting up John’s denim-clad thigh, thumb pressing down and down again in a slow, circular caress.
“Pull over,” he said, voice low, and John could feel those baby blues.
Heart still pounding at the jolt of the van when he had braked, he locked his eyes on the road. Tried to remember a time when Roger’s gaze hadn’t felt like witchcraft. John wasn’t one to want for glamour, for romance, for danger, but Roger seemed to be all of those things and John couldn’t quite work out why that moved him so greatly.
“Open the window,” he repeated, braking at the lights.
He could hear Roger inhale deeply beside him, and then his cigarette being extinguished between them. John stared intently at the lights, willing the red away. He did not move when he felt Roger’s forehead warm against his shoulder, each breath through the knitted material of his jumper.
“John,” Roger exhaled, fingers wandering to John’s inner thigh. And then, huskier, “John, pull over, love.”
This was how it always started. The lights turned green and John had the van lurch forward, heart thudding. Inexplicably, he considered it. He even let his eyes rest on spots along the road to park, as they hurtled past. But he did not slow down.
“I’m taking you home, Rog,” he said, detached. Taking him home like had been the plan, when Roger had called him up and slurred down the line. No money for a cab. Miles away from his flat.
Roger’s hand ghosted dangerously close to John’s crotch. He turned so his cheek was pressed against John’s arm. “You can come in,” he purred, “Fred won’t mind.”
John inhaled sharply. Turned at the intersection. And then, when the road was straight, he took Roger by the wrist and pried him off of John’s thigh, placing his hand on the passenger seat.
“John,” whined Roger, lifting his head from John’s shoulder.
John felt flames licking at his chest. “Ever think of Jo, Rog?” he said. Voice sharp. Roger let his head fall back against the headrest of his own seat. John stared at the road.
“You’re a bloke,” said Roger, in a small, shrugging way.
“Thanks for noticing.”
“It doesn’t count.”
John didn’t even have to resist the urge to look at Roger anymore. He wanted to disappear. The façade was growing thin, his knuckles white. “If it doesn’t count, why not just tell her?”
Roger responded surprisingly quickly, as though he’d genuinely given it a lot of thought. “She’d tell Chrissie. Chrissie’d tell Brian.”
John didn’t have an argument. He was just as certain as Roger that that would be a shitshow. He understood, he really did—Roger cared about the band, he cared about it deeply. More than he would ever care about John.
The hand was back on John’s thigh. Finally, with difficulty, he turned to look at Roger. Swaying forward slightly, lashes dipping, casting shadow. His hair golden and mussed and hanging partially over his face. Lips parted. Shirt opened to expose the glistening plane of his chest. His other hand was trailing down from the chains around his neck to lightly brush over his own nipple. He shuddered. Then he opened his mouth to speak.
“Stop.” John said thickly, cutting him off. Turned back to focus on the road. Pretended his whole body wasn’t warm with arousal. A moment passed, and then two, and then Roger took his hand off John’s thigh.
There was silence for a long while. John changed lanes and listened to the fire crackling in his chest. He ached to get close enough to hear if there was one burning in Roger, too, but instead he gritted his teeth.
Finally, Roger spoke. “Why?” It was almost accusatory.
“I won’t sleep with you again, until you tell her.”
John’s voice was cold, betraying nothing of his rumbling heart. Roger exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat.
In the dead of London’s night, they were twin flames glittering. John dropped Roger at he and Freddie’s flat and drove home alone with both of the windows down. His throat ached though there were no tears and his hair was whipped out of his face with the breeze and he wondered how fast he would have to drive before the wind managed to blow the flame inside him out.
…