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Something throbbed profoundly inside of him when Brian's eyes went glassy and he had to blink away the tears.
The sounds of his best friend crying while the other two in the garden, just below the stars yet just beside the sounds of crickets who were hiding in the bushes, unbothered by the conversation and crying, chirping hugged him with comforting words, made his heart ache.
Brian was a more than a little drunk, as were all of them, and his sudden outburst of emotion when Freddie had made a comment about his own childhood was nothing unexpected. He was quite an emotional drinker but it was mostly enthusiasm unless you tipped him the wrong way, and well, it seemed like Freddie had accidently done just that.
The oldest of them all began tearing up as soon as Brian did which set off a chain reaction of tears from most of the group excluding Roger who was eerily stone-faced. It wasn't that he didn't care, he did, it was only that if he let himself pay attention to what Brian was talking about he would find himself in a hole too deep to get himself out of.
Brian had brought his gaze to the sky where the tears in his eyes slid down to his chin. Freddie and John were on either side of him, clutching him in a crushing hug while he told them about his troublesome childhood. His mother hit him, his father acknowledged it but did nothing to stop the relentless beatings. Both of his parents allowed him to sit in his isolation as a child while he only asked for a brother or sister to keep him company through the times where he felt like he could cry from the boredom and loneliness.
It was nothing short of traumatic, and Roger took a hold on his knee that was tucked into his chest to show his support. Brian sniffled wetly and pat his hand back.
He felt egotistical for letting himself think of his own involvement with a troubled childhood while his best-friend was spilling his guts to his friends. He was brave, and Roger admired him for that. Roger would never be able to talk about things like that in front of his friends, it would consume him. They would soak him in pity, perhaps even treat him differently if they knew what really happened when no one was looking when he was a child.
Worst of all, and the reason he couldn't ever speak about it to anyone and especially not the only friends he had, he would have to retell what had happened. What if none of was as grave as he had thought and they laugh at him? Or they don't believe him? Brian began to hiccup beside him but his tears stopped and instead he began to wipe his face while thanking Freddie, John, and himself for letting him talk about his burdens.
Roger felt a pang of guilt, he hadn't been listening.
What could he have done? He was a child. A young boy scared to death for his well-being at only the age of six.
Roger's surroundings blurred a little when his mind took control of his thoughts and attached themselves to things he hadn't thought of in years. His mind, despite the way he was doing everything but cutting his head off to avoid those thoughts, forced his attention to what he didn't want to think of by shouting them louder and louder until they were deafening.
When he was eight years old his father, a military veteran and a violent alcoholic, had told his wife that he could place a bomb in the children's room if he fancied to. That he could end their brittle lives faster than they'd begun. They were drunk and Roger had been awake with his sister for fear of the fight their parents had been having in their drunken stupor.
"It would be so easy," His father spoke cooly and confidently enough that neither child doubted it. In a child's ignorant mind and narrowed view of the world, a parent could do anything; including put a live bomb in their room to kill them while they were supposed to be asleep. "I'll do it right now."
Pretending to be asleep when he and his sister, too young to be hearing such things and comprehending what it meant to fear death, heard his father and mother coming, they believed without a doubt that their parents had a bomb that would be set in their room to kill them both. When they had left, not leaving anything in reality, both children crept out their window and huddled together under the window cill to hide from the explosive that hadn't existed in the first place.
Roger hadn't thought of that event in his life since it had happened. He wouldn't tell anyone. His spine was freezing.
He couldn't tell anyone about the time that he had to call the police at age twelve when his father hit his mother because they were drunk for the seventh day in a row and knocked her unconscious. In his fearful mind, she was dead.
Clare screamed at the sight when she saw it through the cracked door and Roger locked himself in his closet until the police showed up and yet they were told it wasn't anything to be concerned about by the very people meant to protect them. His father had a sharp tongue and sweet-talked them into not believing the very frightened children who flinched every time their father moved. The rest of that night slips his mind these days, but it couldn't have been pleasant.
When he was a teenager, despite not being very religious, he prayed his mother wasn't drunk when he got inside of his house so he could talk to her and hold a conversation that didn't make him want to cry.
The days where she wasn't drunk were the best ones. Often, she would be making him an after-school meal and he always cherished the food she made him; the meal that stuck out was spaghetti and mushrooms already on a plate and ready for him when he got inside. They would sit outside while she had a smoke and they would discuss school and how his day was, laughing and appreciating their time alone. Drinking in the moments where she was sober hurt though because he knew he wouldn't be as lucky the next day when he came home.
Roger felt even more selfish when the tears in his eyes started to well up again.
When he was fifteen, he called the police while his father yelled at him for crying about being shouted at. He ran upstairs and attempted to close the door so he could freely speak to the operator, but his father stood in front of him and stared down at him. He couldn't say anything, he would be beaten senseless if he told the truth.
Roger never forgave the operator for letting him lie to them so obviously. "Are you safe?" She asked. He said yes, though his voice was clearly hesitant and full of terror. She believed him, and he woke up the next morning with a black eye and cuts all over his body because school was out for the summer and no one would see them.
Roger's mind blanked. He had been crying. He didn't notice the eyes on him until he felt a hand on his shoulder that he violently jumped from which frightened the owner of the hand as well.
"Roger?" Freddie asked, voice dense with sympathy and care. He couldn't bring himself to look at his friend, so he looked to the right where darkness blanketed the rest of the garden.
"Yeah, sorry," He responded to clear the air. "Um, I'm just..." What did he want to say? He forgot quickly with his thoughts dancing in his mind.
Brian was the one who tugged on his shoulder now, and he just sort of slumped into the affectionate touch. The brunette squeezed his head awkwardly and he made a sound like he was pleased, but he was also very drunk. "I love you guys."
"We love you too," Freddie replied happily. His gaze lingered on Roger a little longer than the rest of them, and he knew then that the oldest was soberer than he'd thought.
"Love you, Brian." Roger smiled up at his friend and he got a smile back from each of them.
Perhaps he would tell them one day. Maybe they would understand. Tonight, however, he didn't want to think of anything else.