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Roger had found it increasingly difficult to do his job as a front man with half of his worried attention on Pete. He witnessed him swill back an entire bottle of cognac that night, and while Pete had performed drunk before, Pete was clearly amidst more than just drunkenness tonight. And Pete usually got away with it from his sheer talent—which he was mostly achieving tonight. However, he kept howling his vocal parts at the wrong time and it was becoming a chore for the band to adjust to him.
Watching Pete sway and stagger now was a bit hard to watch, especially in comparison to Pete at their height, who performed with such athleticism and elegance and energy. At least the show was almost over now, and they were jamming on a work in progress. It was being written live. Roger always liked songs like that.
Pete and Roger fell together in harmony where the chorus would be, Pete taking the higher notes and Roger the lower ones. As Pete began supplanting more licks, letting his guitar work eclipse his vocals, Roger allowed himself to take over in the harmonies, riffing and breaking away from the established melody. Pete at least took the cue to start soloing fully, and Roger was eternally grateful they had Rabbit now to hold down the harmonic fort.
Then, the jam took it down a notch in dynamic, and Pete started spewing lines into his mic.
"I need your help… I need your help… I need your help… Ican'tdoitalone please, I need your help…"
And when Pete started noodling, Roger just followed Pete, like always.
"How can you do it with out any help, how can you do it all by yourself…"
At times, Roger wondered if there were more autobiographical elements to Pete's strung-together live lyrics than what met the eye, or if it was just off the top of his head, meant to sound relatable.
Despite his inebriation, Pete was playing well. His style took on a more jazzy edge without the responsibility of playing time-keeper for Keith and John. Roger could give Kenney that. He opened up the gateways for Pete, at the expense of cementing Roger down.
Despite how passable he played, Pete was stumbling over his feet now. The dynamic was crescendoing to its peak now, and Pete was dancing with more dare. Roger found it difficult to think of new melodic inversions as he watched Pete stumble around, flirting with falling on his ass every few seconds.
The jam reached it's conclusion with a flurry of concluding chords, which Pete always jumped for. The was no fanfare as Pete set down his guitar, not even bothering to turn his volume to 0 to prevent buzz or feedback. A roadie took care of it as Pete began to stagger his way over to the microphone, perhaps to address the audience to conclude the concert.
Roger could see the collapse before it happened. Pete was trembling, staggering backwards and forwards. Roger's urge to help Pete came to him as automatically as breathing. He rushed behind Pete, and as he surmised, Pete's legs started to tremble, and eventually gave out before he reached the microphone.
Pete's arms extended reflexively as he fell back, and Roger caught him under them.
The audience reacted with a cacophony of "ooh"s. John hadn't bothered to move. When Roger caught his glance though, there was a noticeable concern.
Roger hooked Pete's arm over his shoulder, supporting him with a hand on the waist. Pete was nearly dead to the world, struggling to stand on his feet. Roger could hear Pete faintly murmuring Roger's name.
Roger was surprised by Pete's weight as he staggered the two of them toward the mic. "He's alright," he said. The crowd was still a roar of chatter, and Roger wasn't sure if he could even be heard. "He's alright, he's just, uh..." He giggled reflexively, though he certainly wasn't amused. "He just drank more than he should've."
Pete tried to move away from Roger, perhaps to say something into the mic, but the surge of energy left him weaker than he already was. Before Roger knew it, Pete was going down, and their configuration couldn't support him. Roger was only able to ease Pete's trip to the floor.
It was clear that Pete was dead to the world by now, completely limp. Roger crouched to pick Pete up, slotting his arms under Pete's shoulders and legs. His muscles strained and protested as he stood, hoisting Pete with him, though the weight quickly settled once Roger found his footing, as if it were a part of him. The roaring chatter of the crowd was making Roger's head hurt, and he didn't bother to reassure the crowd again. He needed to get offstage and so did Pete.
Several people tried to intervene, asking questions and offering their help, but Roger ignored all of them. He found independence was a tricky thing to acquire amidst fame, and it bothered him deeply. There was a dark green sofa backstage, and he figured he could place Pete there.
John had wordlessly followed Roger in tow, and when they approached the sofa, John assisted Roger in laying Pete on his back over the sofa by carrying Pete's legs while Roger carried Pete's upper half. John situated Pete's legs over the armrest so they were elevated.
Then John departed, and Roger sat on an armchair beside the sofa, listening to Pete's breaths, waiting for them to stagger or stop. Roger didn't know if alcohol was the only thing in Pete's system right now, and each steady rise and fall of Pete's chest both reassured and nagged Roger's worry. It wasn't long before John returned with a wet rag.
"You can place this over his head," John said, handing the rag to Roger.
"I know," Roger murmured as he pressed the cool, damp rag on Pete's pale forehead. The guitarist's skin grew clammier each day.
"He'll be alright," John said. Roger wanted to repeat himself that he knew, but he quickly realized that he wasn't actually so sure. It did comfort him somewhat to hear it.
"Thanks," Roger said.
"Are you—"
"Yes." Roger's tone was clipped.
John crossed his arms. "Just don't be too hard on him when he wakes up."
There was an unspoken understanding between them that this incident wasn't unfounded. Pete wasn't particularly good at hiding his emotions, so it was obvious he was trying to numb a tremendous amount of emotional pain. It was a pain they all felt, but they each tackled it differently.
John departed as Roger requested. Roger could tell that John had wanted to stay— he loved Pete just as much, if not more than Roger. He was no doubt eaten up by worry, despite his lack of expressiveness. The Ox's emotions were a tricky language to learn, but Roger liked to think that he'd picked up a passable amount in his years of immersion. So Roger was deeply grateful that John allowed Roger his solitude.
He felt Pete's head shift under the rag, punctuated by a groan.
"Pete," Roger breathed.
Pete turned away from the rag, disagreeing with the feeling of it. "Wha's…" He whined, no doubt disoriented and battling having some sort of headache. "Wha's happened…"
Roger's concern expressed itself the only way it knew how. "You passed out, you drunkard," he snapped.
Pete was staring at the ceiling blearily, and Roger couldn't tell if he was being listened to. He didn't particularly care.
"I just— I don't—" Roger sighed, trying to string his thoughts together. "Why are you doing this to yourself, Pete? Have you learned nothing from Moonie? Is it your goal to destroy yourself?" Why are you forcing me to lose another band mate? "Do you—"
Pete turned away from Roger suddenly, chest rising in larger, quicker drags. He began to shift onto his side, but Roger put a palm on his shoulder.
"Pete—"
Roger leaned closer to glimpse at Pete's face, and Pete jolted upright, desperate to keep his face out of Roger's view. He made a loud and staggered breath, his body twitching slightly.
Roger reflexively reached for Pete's shoulder. "Don't sit up too quickly," he said quietly. Intuitively, he knew why Pete has hiding, but he did not feel equipped with the tools to handle it. He felt his heart rate kick up.
From behind, Roger saw Pete shake his head. His shoulders were trembling, and Roger kept his figurative distance. Pete was a constant, tumultuous cyclone, and it was impossible to predict whether you were going to get his sweet and genuine kindness, or a verbal whipping.
Then Roger heard a sob, and immediately he felt his heart sink. Not out of pity— or at least not immediate pity. He'd just never seen Pete have a genuine cry before, and to have something as foreign as this thrust into your hands was a frightening thing.
Roger was stuck as he heard another stifled sob escape Pete, the other man's hand coming up to clamp over his mouth as he unraveled, his breaths now sharp and wet as he fought down his weeping.
Eventually, Roger's mind allowed him to move, and he abandoned his chair to sit beside Pete on the couch, positioning himself in front of where Pete was facing. He got a glimpse of Pete's face, which was red and wet with tears. Pete lifted his eye to meet Roger's gaze, and his expression was a portrait of shame. He looked seconds away from running as he tried and failed to suppress the hitches of his shoulders and his small gasps. Pete didn't speak, but Roger could read, 'Please, for the love of God, help me' writ across Pete's flushed face.
It was one of those moments where thought was overtaken by instinct. Whether it was driven by fear or urgency didn't matter— it could be both or neither. Roger's body moved without instruction or fear of consequence, and his arms were pulling Pete in before he could register it.
Roger's nose was filled with the scent of sweat and alcohol as his face found Pete's shoulder, but Roger couldn't bring himself to care. He probably didn't smell much better himself. He was more preoccupied with the inexplicable sense of relief of feeling Pete's warm and breathing body against his. He clenched Pete tighter, as if that action could ward off Pete's own self-destructiveness. As if holding him here forever was the only way to protect him from ending up like...
No.
Roger shook the thought away. He refocused on the way Pete curled his body into Roger's. Because Roger had expected rebuke, but perhaps Pete was of like-mind with Roger, for once. The instinctual need for comfort was greater than their superficial insecurities about vulnerability.
"Sorry…" Pete whined against Roger's shoulder.
"It's alright…" Roger said gently, stroking along Pete's back.
Roger felt Pete's long arms come up to clutch his back, pulling him closer. "I'm j—I'm just—"
And then a powerful surge of sobbing took over Pete, and he lurched against Roger as if he were about to heave. Roger reached to the back of Pete's head, fingers curling in Pete's hair as he guided his face into his shoulder. Pete whined as he took the invitation, burrowing into the warmth Roger offered.
The sound of Pete crying was a strange thing to hear, because Roger was so familiar with Pete's voice, but he hadn't ever heard Pete's breathless sobs or soft stifled whimpers. He scratched Pete's scalp as his body hitched and wracked, whispering sweet nothings to him as he felt his shirt grow wetter and wetter against Pete's eyes.
Part of him was frightened of this new territory, but a bigger part of him was so grateful they finally got here. Pete often led Roger on with his emotions, so to speak. He'd flirt at the idea of inviting Roger past his thick, reinforced walls that stretched into the sky, and then he'd retract at the last moment and abandon Roger outside. It was frustrating, but it also made Roger feel bad for Pete. He could see Pete was bleeding, that he wanted bandages, but experience had made it impossible not to expect hurt from the hands that offered them.
Then Roger felt resistance against his arms and chest as Pete attempted to push him away, still hiccuping and sniffling, and he knew Pete was once again trying to block him out.
Oh, no you don't. Roger almost crushed Pete against his body as he pulled him back, the pressure stilling the other man.
"No. It's okay, you're okay. I've got you. I've got you."
He felt Pete nod hesitantly against his shoulder, surrendering to it, surrendering to Roger. His arms flopped limply to his sides, before he turned his head down slightly to bury his face into Roger's shoulder once more.
Roger's hands busied themselves at gently scratching through Pete's hair, trying to soothe. He was never good at bringing things up at the right time. That wasn't about to change when he asked, "Is it… is it about Keith?"
Pete was sniffling a lot. There was a nod.
Roger stroked Pete's back as if in reward. "Is it… Cincinnati as well?"
Pete tensed immediately, but when he spoke he sounded tired. "God, Rog—" He pulled back weakly, which Roger allowed. Pete's gaze was scornful. "Is critical thinking even… even a skill that you have?"
Roger was about to get defensive, but when he saw Pete's face— broken, raw, and damp, aged beyond his years, his suffering etched into every crease and wrinkle, his tears flowing more insistently than before, Roger felt his own eyes burning. There were only four people alive who understood this pain, this terrible, heavy, infectious pain, and that was a lonely thing.
"Sorry," Roger croaked.
"You don't…" Pete's voice was wobbling, and Roger could tell the walls were immediately being thrown back up. "You can't help me, Rog," Pete managed. "I'm really… f-fucked up here."
Roger wasn't having it, and Pete, despite what he'd just said, didn't resist as Roger pulled him back in. "You're such a melodramatic twit."
Pete didn't rebut as he rested his cheek against Roger's shoulder, still sniffling. His sobs had subsided by now. Roger wasn't sure if Pete's continued allowance of this was due to genuine trust or just being too drunk and spent to physically resist, but Roger soaked up every second. He didn't know if he'd ever get this much closeness with Pete ever again. This single taste would create a craving forever.
They stayed like that for either minutes or hours, and Roger learned Pete didn't cry linearly. His sobs returned in bursts, sometimes accompanied by tears, and sometimes not. Pete would turn his face into the crook of Roger's neck in a jerk, and he'd be attacked by an onslaught of tears. Roger was content to hold him through it, part of him hoping this would finally prove to Pete that Roger was a worthy friend, that he wasn't the bully Pete made him out to be. And maybe, indulgently, Roger hoped that it would lead to Pete letting him into his heart another time.
And maybe, he'd let Roger dig out a little cave in that enormous sadness. Roger was content to live in Pete's melancholy, if it meant he could provide him with a bit of warmth and light.