Chapter Text
“I think we should break up.”
The relief at finally having said it aloud hit John like a beautiful wave. He really didn't mean to hurt Roger, but it was getting hard to maintain a relationship he truly had no emotional stake in.
He hadn’t meant to lead Roger on, it just sort of happened.
John wasn’t built for romance, much as he did try. His heart wasn’t ever in it for more than friendship. He kept it to himself for the most part. Terrified that something was wrong with him, and even if he did manage to articulate his condition, what if his friends decided he was a freak of nature not worthy of their time and effort.
What kind of person can’t fall in love?
Perhaps he should have told Roger months ago, or the night Roger confessed his feelings. Even then he hadn't wanted to hurt the his feelings. Really all of John’s current issues could be traced back to not wanting to hurt someone. What was he supposed to say to confessed feelings anyway? Tell him?
He couldn’t.
They were sitting close, legs touching. John wasn't usually the biggest fan of physical touch, but Roger was nice. Brian had wandered off some time ago, and Freddie had never actually made it to the booth. It was just them. John had decided not to drink, he had a test in the morning and was decidedly not going to take it hungover.
It wasn't all bad, alcohol was hardly required to have fun anyway. Roger could also do with a keeper in his state. John turned his head to face the drummer and found Roger swaying to the music, far, far away from sober.
John sipped his water, humming to the music. It wasn't to his taste, but it was nicer than awkward silence to fill.
“John,” Roger slurred.
“Deacy?”
John looked up from his water. Roger wasn't swaying (as much) anymore, he had turned to face John, fixing him with an intense stare. His Blue eyes felt like they were boring their way into John’s soul, and would know all his secrets if left to look for too long. The rawness of it made him uncomfortable.
“Er, yes, Rog?”
“Y’lovely, hope y’know that.” Roger went red, more than the flush of one too many beers. John was watching Roger’s face, there was very little he could do otherwise, turning to stare down his glass would be rude.
“Oh,” he said, trying not to sound out of place, it was far from what he meant to say, not that he meant to say anything. He didn't know what to say to that. What do you say when your friend calls you lovely? Thank you? No that didn't seem right.
“Y’are, y’lovely ‘n nice, ‘n pretty.”
Fuck. No, no, no.
John wanted to crawl into a large dark hole and never return. It was uncomfortable, Roger was… confessing, and John could only sit there. His only overwhelming feeling was guilt, hot and ashamed at the fact he didn’t feel the same, though not for the usual reason. Roger was… lovely, he was passionate, witty and a brilliant musician. John did love him. Just… Not that way. He flushed, though not from alcohol or bashfulness like Roger, but embarrassment that only he understood.
Roger took John’s flush to mean something else.
“Can I kiss you?” The blond asked, his already soft voice almost a whisper now. John could have collapsed with relief at being asked, given the option to say no where others might not have thought to check. John had to remind himself, this was roger, of course roger would ask before kissing someone. He wasn’t any gentlemen, but he was respectful. John felt even more guilty for assuming otherwise.
Roger was looking positively out of it by now, a twinkle in his eye. John wasn’t sure if he would kiss him, even if he was interested in what roger was offering. It would be bad faith to kiss someone who can’t sit up straight, John would never.
“Er… No.”
John watched Roger’s face fall, the twinkle in his blue eyes turning dull, his face losing it’s warmth and turning distressed. John didn’t like that at all. He might not have felt the same ‘romantic’ feelings, but he still cared for the man. He wasn’t totally unfeeling, or at least, he hoped he wasn’t. Sometimes he worried.
He could only watch as Roger drunkenly tried to leave–to escape–the situation John had put him in. The drummer stood on shaky legs and almost immediately stumbled, falling back onto the faux leather seats. “Roger,” John tried, not sure what he was doing. He wasn’t sure whether he’d prefer Roger stay or leave.
Roger tried leaving a second time, he refused to meet John’s eye. In his attempt to face away from John, he failed to look down and see the legs of the table. He kicked one. John blinked and he was on the floor.
Quickly he moved to help, beside Roger in a blink. It was the least he could do for the man who he upset. It was his fault Roger was on the floor at all, if John had been normal, and said normal things, Roger wouldn’t have tried running away from him.
He touched Roger’s arm gently, preparing to help him sit.
“C’mon Rog, let’s-”
“Get off me!”
Roger wriggled free of his grip like a toddler. It would have been quite funny if Roger weren’t on the floor of a pub looking distressed and hurt in ways John hadn’t seen on him before. It didn’t suit the drummer, not one bit.
“No,” John decided, firmly. He wouldn’t let go. He was going to help Roger home even if it meant he would be hated come morning.
Roger’s anger faltered.
“Please?” he asked quietly.
“No, Roger, I’m not going to let you lay on the pub floor in a stink,” he said, holding his ground. “It’s disgusting down here, who knows when the staff last cleaned.” He watched Roger for his response, he wasn’t in the mood to fight the man over this, but he had no idea what might happen, this wasn’t his area of expertise.
Roger seemed to consider it, looking down at the grime-covered floor, and then back at John. John hoped he didn’t look angry. The last thing he wanted is Roger thinking he was angry.
“Take me home?”
Roger’s voice was small, and so uncertain, as if he thought John might deny him again.
“Of course, Rog.” Carefully, they stood together, john used one hand to hold the table, and the other to hold Roger’s waist. It was intimate. He didn’t hate it. Roger was warm, if unstable in his arms. If he weren’t the only thing keeping Roger from the floor, he would call it nice.
Together (Brian and Freddie were big boys, they could find their own way home,) shakily they made it outside the pub. The cold, english night air was biting, and just what John needed. It was sobering, even if he wasn’t drunk. Roger whined at the cold, John was reminded now of the big fuss Roger had made earlier that night about 'not needing a bloody coat.’
Without thinking, John slipped his own coat off. The cold wasn’t bothering him too much, anyway, he needed the air. He handed the thing to Roger who took it gratefully.
“Ta,” he muttered, slipping it on. It wasn’t Roger’s style, and it made him look a bit silly, but now he couldn’t whine about the chill in the air.
Luckily, there were cabs aplenty, all likely waiting for the drunk to wander out. John carefully hauled Roger into one of the empty ones. The drummer protested weakly, but still got in when told. John made the decision not to Join Roger in the cab. He could only imagine what damage he would cause sitting in close quarters with Roger again.
Before closing the cab door, he asked “You gonna be alright, Rog?”
Roger nodded defeated, clearly tired now.
Acting before thinking, John leaned in close, and kissed him on the cheek. It surprised both of them. John hadn’t meant to kiss him, per se, he only wanted to take the defeated look off of Roger’s face, and his mind, without running it by him first, had decided that was the way.
“We’ll talk in the morning okay?”
He tried his best to ignore the new blush he could see rising on Roger’s cheeks, not unlike the one he had seen inside the pub. Softly as he could, John closed the cab door. Deciding to be kind, he gave the cab driver money to cover Roger’s fair.
The next morning, it had been Roger who called him. Sheepish and apologetic for his behaviour. As if he had done anything wrong.
“I’m sorry. I was quite pissed. Forget anything I said, it was stupid and I didn’t mean it and-”
Roger had rambled. John might have believed him, if he hadn’t seen the look on Roger’s face the previous evening. Roger could act all he wanted over the phone. John knew he was lying.
“Stop that,” he interrupted, even though he didn’t know what to say next.
“You misunderstood me last night,” he started. “You were too drunk to stand, Roger. Would you have kissed me if I were that drunk?” Perhaps it wasn’t the best choice of words on his part. He wasn’t sure if he would enjoy any kissing Roger or not.
“No, no definitely not. I respect the boundaries of those unable to consent,” confirmed Roger.
The mood, which had been palpable not moments before, was now comfortable and calm. John could hear Roger shifting in his bed. “So,” Roger broke the silence. “Is that the only reason you said no?”
John didn’t have to see Roger to imagine the face he was making now. He had seen in the night before. But now, now Roger wasn’t drunk, and he wanted answers. Answers John simply didn’t have.
To avoid explaining himself, he lied.
“Oh, erm… yes?”
The shifting on Roger’s end grew louder, more frantic.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me, John? Nothing fancy, but y’know, a date?”
It put John in an odd position, where if he said no, he would have to explain that he lied about why he didn’t want to kiss Roger as well as why they couldn’t date. He didn’t know how to articulate that it wasn’t Roger as a person, but rather that John just didn’t feel any sort of romantic tendencies towards anyone.
He had tried explaining that to a girl in the past, she had gotten terribly upset and angry with him. Upset at his rejection, and angry with him for leading her on. He hadn’t meant to lead her on. He had thought they were studying together, and he was quite happy with it at the time. Then she had poured her heart out to him over their maths syllabus.
He didn’t want to upset Roger, and dinner did sound nice.
“Okay.”