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The January wind off the lake at Virginia Water does not just blow; it bites, sharp and damp, carrying the scent of pine needles and frosted Surrey earth. On the flat stretch of the leaded roof of their sprawling rental, the cold is an afterthought. It is a dull ache easily ignored in favor of the heat they are generating between them. Bernie lies flat on his back, a heavy sheepskin coat spread beneath him like a makeshift mattress, his long, fair hair fanning out over the collar. Elton is propped on one elbow beside him, swallowed whole by an oversized, technicolor patchwork fur that smells faintly of stale stage smoke, expensive French cologne, and wet dog.
Between them, the glowing cherry of a loosely rolled joint cuts a tiny, bright orange arc through the pitch-black midnight. Elton takes a long, slow drag, the paper crackling in the quiet. He does not exhale. Instead, he leans over Bernie, his hand cupping Bernie’s jaw—his fingers freezing against the younger man's skin—and presses his lips to Bernie’s. He blows the sweet, pungent smoke straight into Bernie’s lungs. It is a practiced, intimate rhythm, a shotgun kiss that leaves them both breathless, coughing a little, and grinning into the dark.
From the open skylight just a few feet away, the tinny, otherworldly strains of David Bowie’s "Space Oddity" drift up from the stereo downstairs. *Ground Control to Major Tom...* The acoustic guitar chords echo slightly against the brick chimneys, sounding thin and beautifully isolated beneath a massive, clear velvet sky that is absolutely spilling over with stars. They have been married in total, terrifying secrecy for three years now, a ring on a chain around Bernie’s neck and a quiet understanding between them that feels safer than any church. Downstairs, ten dogs are sleeping in a massive, tangled heap of fur and snoring, but up here, it is just the two of them and the universe.
Elton stares up at the cosmos, his oversized, tinted spectacles slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He blinks, his eyes tracking the silver dust of the Milky Way, completely captivated by the vastness of it all.
"I just had a fabulous idea," Elton says suddenly. His voice is a low, raspy murmur, thick with the weed and the cold air, but vibrant with that sudden, erratic spark of energy that always signals his brain is turning over a new melody.
Bernie doesn't move his head from the sheepskin coat. He just shifts his gaze sideways, looking at his husband's profile against the starlight. A fond, lazy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, taking the joint from Elton’s fingers to take a drag of his own.
"Yeah?" Bernie asks, his voice a gravelly, northern drawl that grounds Elton completely. "That it's cold as hell out here, or something to do with Sagittarius over there?" He points a lazy, mitten-clad finger toward a cluster of bright stars blinking just above the tree line.
Elton doesn't laugh. He is staring out into the black void between the constellations, his expression turning wistful, almost melancholic, the way it only does when he is truly feeling the weight of the world they are trying to conquer. "It's lonely out in space, doncha think?" Elton murmurs, his fingers absently tracing the pattern of Bernie's coat.
Bernie blows a plume of gray smoke up toward the stars, watching it dissipate into the freezing night air. He thinks about the sheer speed of their lives right now—the tours, the recording studios, the constant, dizzying climb up the charts. Sometimes it does feel like they’ve been strapped to a missile and launched away from everything ordinary.
"Suppose," Bernie says softly, shifting closer until his shoulder rubs against Elton’s. "Don't fancy going up."
"Ain't the kinda place to raise your kids," Elton replies instantly, the words falling out of his mouth with a strange, rhythmic cadence, less like a spoken thought and more like a line of poetry he is testing on his tongue.
Bernie turns his head fully now, his blue eyes searching Elton's face in the dim light. The word *kids* hangs in the air between them, heavier and sweeter than the smoke. They are young—twenty-four and twenty-one—and the world doesn't have a place for two men raising a family together, let alone two rock stars. But they’ve already defied the odds by building a life here, hidden away in the Surrey countryside. Bernie thinks of their friends, the rock royalty they occasionally rub shoulders with, trying to find normalcy in the madness.
"You want kids? Like John and Paul?" Bernie asks, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a genuine, quiet curiosity. He thinks of Julian and little Mary, growing up in the chaotic, beautiful swirl of the post-Sixties music explosion.
Elton sighs, a cloud of white condensation rising from his lips. He rolls onto his back, slinging a heavy, fur-clad arm over Bernie’s chest, pulling him tight against his side to keep the wind out.
"'Ventually," Elton admits, his eyes softening as he thinks about the future, a long way down the road when the stadium lights aren't so blinding. He smiles, a warm, crinkling expression that makes his cheeks bunch up. "Like our dogs for now."
Bernie lets out a soft, breathy sound, burying his nose into the collar of Elton's ridiculous fur coat. "Me too."
It is a massive understatement. Their house is practically run by the four-legged army they’ve accumulated over the last few years. Downstairs, tucked into every available corner of the kitchen and the hearth, are ten distinct personalities. There is their massive, noble Alsatian who acts like the self-appointed guardian of the property; Arthur and Marilyn, the elegant collies who follow Bernie like twin shadows; and Woodside, the loud, aggressively protective Cocker Spaniel who barks at the wind but sleeps curled at the foot of their bed. There are the terriers, Piglet and Greenie, always looking for trouble; Tumbleweed, the golden, dopey Labrador retriever who loves everyone; and Captain Fantastic and Brown Dirt Cowboy, the pair of bloodhounds they’ve named after their own mythos, who spend their days tracking imaginary scents across the lawn.
And then, of course, there is McLennon. The sheepdog puppy was a gift, a clumsy, oversized ball of fluff given to them because she was one of Martha’s puppies—yes, that Martha, Paul McCartney’s famous hound. McLennon already has the same unruly spirit, a living, breathing connection to the musical gods Bernie worships. Elton’s fingers tap a steady, syncopated rhythm against Bernie’s ribs, completely unconscious of the movement. His mind is clearly drifting away from the dogs and back out into the stratosphere, riding the wave of the high and the cold air.
"Man on a rocket, burnin' up a fuse..." Elton croons softly, the melody lifting just a fraction, a sweet, soulful fragment of a tune that doesn't exist yet anywhere but inside his head.
Bernie perks up, lifting his head off Elton's chest. He recognizes that specific, faraway look in Elton's eyes. It’s the look that means a masterpiece is knocking on the door. "What's that?" Bernie asks, his writer’s instinct immediately waking up, his fingers itching for a notepad and a pen despite the freezing temperatures.
Elton’s eyes are wide, fixed on a single, bright star, his expression completely dreamlike. "Think I got a song, Piggy."
Bernie smiles, a massive, brilliant grin breaking across his face. He is a self-confessed, die-hard Beatles fanatic, a boy from Lincolnshire who still sometimes can't believe he gets to make music for a living. To watch the creative process happen right in front of him, born out of a quiet moment on a roof in the middle of winter, never ceases to awe him.
"That's my Elsie," Bernie says, his voice thick with affection and pride. He reaches up, gently tugging at a strand of Elton’s hair. "Getting a song while getting high as a kite. You're like a Fifth Beatle."
Elton lets out a soft hum, a bit of his characteristic, playful modesty slipping through the haze. He turns his head to look at Bernie, his glasses reflecting the moonlight. "Think Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix did it first."
Bernie lets out a loud, joyous laugh that rings out into the empty, freezing Surrey night, surely waking the bloodhounds downstairs. He leans up, capturing Elton’s mouth in a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of winter, smoke, and the dizzying, brilliant future stretching out ahead of them.