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The four of them have always fought. It’s just something that’s bound to happen— Brian and Roger are constantly bickering about something or other; John and Brian’s difference in musical style sometimes causes tension; Roger and Freddie are prone to the occasional shouting match followed by days of silent treatment before finally making up. All of that is normal, and John has become accustomed to it in the two years since he first joined the band.
But they don’t usually fight like this.
They’ve barely gotten anything done in the studio all week between all the arguments. Someone thinks they should change a lyric, they fight. Somebody drags behind and messes up a recording, they fight. Hell, when Roger sneezed in the middle of laying down the drum track for Son and Daughter a few days ago it had resulted in such a bad row they’d had to call it quits for the day and just go home.
Which is also a bit of a nightmare, considering the four of them live together. It makes for a rather unpleasant environment to say least; half the time at least two of them are refusing to even acknowledge the others existence (most often Brian and Roger), and even when they’re all on speaking terms and doing their best to act normal things just feel… tense. Off.
Tonight was especially bad. It’s rare for John and Roger to get into spats like the others do; they argue, sure, but John likes to think that over the past year and a half of dating they’ve gotten rather good at communicating with one another. John can count on one hand the number of times a disagreement between him and Roger has escalated to the point of a shouting match like the kind Roger gets into with Freddie and Brian.
Tonight they had, though.
John doesn’t like fighting with any of them, but he especially doesn’t like fighting with Roger. He hates it. It was so stupid, too; Roger had been looking for a fight from the moment they arrived at the studio, and somehow John telling him that he was slowing down a beat too early at the end Liar had escalated into Roger accusing John of not contributing enough to the album.
“At least I’ve written a bloody song,” is what he’d said, his words sharp and biting, “Maybe you should try actually pulling your weight for once.”
John can hear it echoing in his head even now, hours later, as he stares himself down in the mirror above the bathroom sink in their flat. God, he looks a wreck. He looks about as exhausted as he feels, he reckons; the bags under his eyes are dark, and he looks pale and washed out under the dim, yellowish lighting.
The thing is, he knows that Roger didn’t mean it. He does. And he knows that he said things in the heat of the moment as well that weren’t exactly kind. But John has to admit, that one hurt like a bitch. It’s something he’s already insecure about. Freddie, Roger, and Brian— they’re already fantastic songwriters without even having to try, whereas everything John’s written so far has been utter shit, not even worth showing to the others. And Roger knew how John felt about it when he’d said it, he’d known exactly how much it would hurt.
So when Roger had stormed straight past John and into his own bedroom the second they got back to the flat without even a second glance in his direction, John didn’t exactly inclined to fight him on it. Usually, Roger sleeps in John’s room with him— in fact, it’s probably been more than a year now since Roger’s even slept in his own bed— at this point, him having his own bedroom is more to keep up appearances during visits from friends and family than anything else. But it’s probably for the best, John thinks, for them to spend the night apart. Give each other some time to cool down.
It’s the bloody album. John knows that’s what’s really to blame. They’re nearly finished with it, but the months of recording and re-recording and trying to perfect everything down to the very last detail has been taking its toll on all of them, especially considering the only recording times they can seem to get are in the middle of the bloody night. They’re spending every waking moment together, working tirelessly, trying to get it right. Tensions are high. It’s their first album, there’s a lot riding on it. It has to be perfect.
Turns out perfect is a rather exhausting standard to try and achieve.
John sighs at his reflection, trying to pull himself together. He switches on the tap and leans down, splashes the cool water over his face until he feels a little more human. He pats his skin dry with the towel that’s been left on the rack.
Suddenly, there’s a loud banging on the door.
“John?” Brian’s voice comes through muffled. “Are you still in there?”
John’s jaw tightens, irritation prickling inside his chest. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he calls, resisting the urge to snap at Brian. “I just need to brush my teeth.”
“Fucking hurry up then,” Brian mutters, and John rolls his eyes. Just for that, he takes extra long on purpose. When he finally does open the door Brian brushes past him without so much as a look in his direction, all but slamming the door shut behind him. Christ, he can be such a baby.
Alone in his bedroom, John changes into a pair of pyjama pants and a t-shirt that he thinks might technically belong to Roger. He almost takes it off and finds a different one, but decides he’s not quite that petty. By the time he’s climbing into bed and turning out the light, he feels exhausted in every sense of the word. His limbs are heavy and his head hurts and he can’t remember the last time he felt this emotionally drained. But for some reason, sleep won’t come.
He’s not used to this anymore, he realizes as he flips his pillow over for the fifth time. He’s become so accustomed to sharing a bed with Roger that now that he’s not here, it feels unnatural without him. His bed is too big, too empty and cold. He tosses and turns, lies there staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He watches the clock on his bedside table tick until the hour hand hits three. He counts backwards from 100, and then counts back up, and then does it again.
He’s on number sixty-seven on the way down for the fourth time when he hears his bedroom door creak open. When he opens his eyes he can just make out Roger’s silhouette in the dark, lingering in his doorway. It’s silent for a long moment, and then,
“Are you awake?” Roger asks quietly.
For a moment John contemplates pretending to be asleep— just waiting for Roger to leave and enduring a sleepless night on his own. In the end, though, he can’t help himself.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Roger steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him. He pads over to the bed, pulling back the covers and climbing in beside John. He doesn’t say a word; just presses himself as close to John as he can get, curling up into him, and even through the hurt and anger that’s still burning a hole deep inside John’s chest he has to admit that the simple action just soothes something in him. Roger sighs softly, like it’s soothing something in him as well, and the sound of it eases every bit of tension out of John’s body. He throws his arm over Roger’s waist and buries his nose in Roger’s hair, lets Roger tangle their legs together under the sheets.
“It was too cold in my room,” Roger says finally.
“Okay,” John murmurs. Roger feels plenty warm to him, but he doesn’t say anything.
Now that Roger is here, the pull of sleep is strong and insistent, and John can’t help but let his heavy eyes fall shut. Roger, too, seems half asleep already. John lies there with him for a long moment, strokes is fingers through Roger’s hair and listens to the sound of his breathing.
“I’m still mad at you,” John says finally.
“I know,” Roger says quietly. “I’m still mad at you too.”
“I know.”
Roger is silent then for a beat, before he says, “I’m sorry, though.”
John presses a soft kiss to Roger’s hair. “I’m sorry, too.”