Archive of Our Own

Pete was at a loss.

He was at a loss about a lot of things, really. He'd suffered a loss, and though it had been a couple years ago, it still stung like hell. He was at a loss as to what to do with the band. He was at a loss for what to write.

But right in this moment, he was at a loss as to what to do about Roger. The other man just kept getting so close to him. Literally.

Once upon a time, Pete had been the one getting up in Roger's space on stage, taking what little opportunity he had to get close to the man. But he'd recognized his mistake and sworn it off, realizing the only shot he had at satisfaction was quenching his desires rather than teasing them with scraps of a fulfillment that would never fully arrive. Not to mention it was unfair to put his feelings on Roger (not that the other man seemed to have a real problem with it, simply taking it in stride with the rest of Pete's on-stage actions.)

Now, though, the script had been flipped. Roger was now practically chasing after Pete on stage, pulling him in close to share a mic on several numbers where they sang together. He'd hook his arm around Pete's head for the chorus of Long Live Rock, and they would sit at the foot of Kenney's kit for Sister Disco. There was more than that, though- when they weren't sharing a mic, Roger would still get up in Pete's personal space, sometimes practically rubbing up against him like a dog in heat. He knew it was really just Roger camping it up for the audience as was his responsibility as the frontman, but it was now to a level that he'd never seen from him before.

If it had been just a couple years ago, Pete would have welcomed the attention and savored every little touch from his aggressively heterosexual yet frustratingly attractive bandmate. But now, he only found it even more tantalizing than his own trespasses, what with the touches initiated by Roger indicating that he did want to be close to Pete- but not in the way Pete had been yearning for so long. 

And yet… he hadn't resisted the gestures. He could play it cold and refuse to reciprocate until Roger got the message, but some part of him couldn't bring himself to- if only to avoid the painful distance that he knew it would create between the two of them. Performing was everything to Roger, and if Pete wasn't getting along with him on stage, then that would be true tenfold off-stage.

Pete was only human, he did appreciate the intimacy; but then again, it was human to desire more than what you could have. In this case, though, denying that partial fulfillment would be more painful than continuing to bear it. He had no choice but to play along, literally. 

But something had occurred to him. Pete was… well, he'd more or less told the world about that side of him with Rough Boys. (The liking-men part, not the liking-Roger part.) Roger, however, was undoubtedly straight. So, him rubbing up against Pete was harmless, just stage antics to wink at the audience that they really did get along after all. Maybe Roger even though Pete welcomed the gesture. But if Pete were to reciprocate, well, that would be different. One thing for a straight man to teasingly touch another man… but if the other man was bisexual(ish?) and teased back, then things would look a bit different.

Perhaps that reversal would be enough to open Roger's eyes to just how poncey he was starting to look- enough to get him to dial it down a little. All without Pete having to explicitly reject him. In fact, he'd only be playing along with Roger's game! Yes, this did seem to be a promising idea…

-

Pete started subtle.

Well, maybe 'subtle' was an ill-fitting word for anything he did on stage. But he started with something small: during the bridge of Behind Blue Eyes, typically, Roger would come over to his side of the stage and sing next to him, albeit each into their own microphone. This night, however, he let himself explode into the bridge with extra enthusiasm, jumping and bouncing with extra gusto. It was barely an act: the energy of the performance was like an infinite spring, and all he had to do was open himself wide to it- and accept the cost of the comedown- to start flying.

Roger sang the first half by himself, already halfway between center stage and Pete's mic; Pete knew that Roger usually gave his microphone a quick twirl before scooting towards Pete for the second half, so Pete positioned himself just to the right of his own mic stand and turned towards Roger, leaving enough room for the twirl but still clearly signalling that he was going to sing with Roger.

Roger looked up as he caught the mic, meeting Pete's eyes, and the negotiation was instant- they'd performed together hundreds, thousands of times, and they could speak the wordless dance of the stage better than they could English. They each took a single step towards each other, closing the distance.

"And if I swallow anything evil, put your finger down my throat-" Typically, Roger would sway back and forth as he sang, head going left and right as if to ensure the entire audience was captured by his voice and vision. With them sharing a mic, though, Roger looked straight ahead, not letting himself look away from any part of the audience during the climax of the song, and so Pete had to crane his head down slightly for his voice to be picked up by the mic. Pete kept his eyes on Roger, watching the other man's energy as he sang the words that Pete had written over a decade ago now, Pete's own voice merely a thin strand amidst Roger's booming performance.

"And if I shiver, please give me a blanket, keep me warm, let me wear your coat-" Pete shut his own eyes, blocking out the light and dark and Roger, narrowing his world to the music and his fingers on the strings as he let himself drift just a little closer to the other man, brushing his waist with his own hip.

Pete opened his eyes just as Roger glanced up at him, eyes wide not with any surprise or reaction to Pete's movements, just with the emotion of the song itself.

Then, Roger stepped away to twirl his mic in a wider arc, and the moment had passed, Pete letting himself step back as he played the break, still surfing the wave of sound and letting it propel him into a jump; then, seeing Roger's continued twirling, let his own arm swing to match like two clockhands in perfect sync, and struck a chord once, twice, thrice, then jumped to touch his heels to his own arse and landed with a strum before playing out the rest of the bar and raising his arm with finality.

Roger retook his pride of place for the final chorus, gaze distant and expression stormy, and Pete watched on as he closed out the song with perfection. He was so caught by the sight that he forgot to sing for the final line, though neither Roger nor John seemed to catch his slip.

Dammit, he swore internally; even just one, tiny little move and he'd already fucked up on stage. But he had no time to self-flagellate, or anything else- the show must go on.

He stepped back to his mic to introduce the next song, and pushed it from his mind until the music left him.

-

Pete didn't make another move at the next show, cowardice winning him over after the slip-up. But that meant he had to endure Roger not just touching their knees together during the end of Sister Disco but full-on sliding up against Pete's side. Then, for the finale of Won't Get Fooled Again, Roger had leaned his head backwards onto Pete's shoulder- while he was still playing, mind- and swayed against him in a way that Pete was convinced must've looked very suggestive to the audience. Hopefully the smoke and lights had helped to obscure the act.

After the show, Pete crashed hard, unable to resist the call of the brandy in his suitcase. He laid on his hotel room bed- single rooms nowadays for the Who, thank God- still in his stage clothes, sweaty and stinking, feeling like shit and feeling sorry for himself and feeling like shit for feeling sorry for himself.

The thought crossed his mind that maybe Roger was doing this on purpose, teasing him not just in a lookie-here-we're-good-chums way but in an I'm-an-attractive-man-and-you're-a-poof kind of way. Surely it was impossible not to see what Roger did to him, right? Any pretentions of Pete seeing Roger as an obstacle to his own success had been thrown out the window years ago; were his struggles with the man perceived as being rooted in something as basic as jealousy or pride? Then again, Pete would easily deserve such a reputation. But on the other hand, Roger would never be so petty… God, what a load of bollocks, I can't even think right…

He groaned and rolled onto his side. Pathetic. He was pushing forty and still acting like it was 1969. Get a fucking grip, Townshend.

Pete nearly fell off the bed at the sound of someone at the door, messing with the lock.

With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to the door. Probably just someone had the wrong room…

"Fuck off," he said as he swung the door open to see… Roger.

"Oh, sorry, thought-" Roger said, looking at the room number, "Thought I had oh-eight. Guess I'm one over."

"Gu'night," Pete slurred as he started to close the door, and, okay, maybe he was drunker than he thought. 

"Hey, wait-!" Roger said, catching the doorknob and easily stopping Pete from closing it. "Ah, Pete…"

"What?" Pete demanded. If Roger was going to have the gall to chide him about his drinking, he really was going to slam the door in his face.

"Sounded good tonight," Roger said, and Pete couldn't tell if he was forcing the positivity or not. Damned brandy.

"Yeah. Sounded alright. G'night," Pete agreed and moved to close the door again, but once again Roger stopped him.

"Wait, uh-" Roger began, then, frowned, seemingly lost for words. After a moment, he said, "The shower."

"The… shower?" Pete repeated. 

"The water- it comes out really cold. So. Uh. Mind that," Roger explained.

Pete rolled his eyes. "I've used a shower before."

Was Roger trying to get into his room? Or try to extend the conversation for some reason? Pete wasn't sure, but he didn't want to spend another moment in Roger's presence, especially not in his drunken state. 

So, Pete closed the door all the way, and locked it. Then, he marched back to the bed and climbed on.

He fell asleep there and then, and only woke up when Kenney knocked and called for him the next morning. He ended up having to take a quick, freezing-cold shower before they left. 

Maybe Roger really had just been warning him about the water.

-

"When I say I need you, you say you better-" "-you better you better you bet!"

"You better bet your life… or love-" "love... will cut you like a knife..." "will cut you, just like a knife…"

Rabbit slid the glissando and Pete jumped into the second verse, literally, with a quick hop that took him slightly backwards, but he stepped back down to his mic stand without a problem.

"I want those feeble-minded axes overthrown!" "Oooooooh…" Pete watched curiously as Roger drifted in his direction. Then, with the second line, Roger snapped his head to the left, eyes locked on Pete, then fleetingly pointed upwards with one finger to punctuate the next line.

"I'm not into your passport picture, I just like your nose!" "Oooooooh…"

Pete sang and played automatically, but the rest of him was frozen even as Roger circled back towards center stage. What was that about? Had Pete just imagined that? Surely Roger hadn't just mocked his nose, on stage, using Pete's own words, in front of thousands of people, right? The other man's expression hadn't changed at all as he'd done it, still the intense persona fit to the song, and now he continued to sing with aplomb as always… but Pete hadn't imagined it. What the fuck?

Pete worked his guitar in frustration, drinking deeper from the river of music that they themselves were the source of, tapping the perpetual motion machine that they collectively dreamed until the song ended and they blinked at the eye contact of reality's suspended disbelief. 

"You better love me! All the time now! You better shove me! Back into line now!" Pete practically shouted into the mic, letting the words scream just as loud as his guitar. For the instrumental break he stepped down to the edge of the stage as his fingers danced up and down on the strings, Kenney's cymbals accompanying him with perfection before Rabbit's second glissando pulled him back to his mic.

Pete kept his eyes to the right as Roger's rough voice took on the third verse, watching as he tipped his head back to punctuate the lines as he always did. Once upon a time, his long curls would drift back as he did so, but his now shorter haircut made no such movement.

Dammit, Pete-! he swore at himself for the distraction and, somehow, his frustration was enough for him to take his frame of mind in both hands and adjust it against the wall of sound to put it back in line with the river. He stuck his eyes to his guitar before closing them entirely and shouted.

"You better you better you bet!"

The windshield-wiping of his right hand was a comfort, he could do this, he could play this song in his fucking sleep and no stupid crush was going to stop him.

"You better you better you bet!"

He recalled his thoughts as he'd written these words, the anger of the imagined listener-slash-interlocutor, the one demanding the life-or-death stakes: the one demanding a commitment. Was Pete the dealer or the gambler? He wasn't sure. Maybe both. Bleedin' schizophrenic.

"You better you better you bet!"

But of course, Roger's voice changed it, not an exasperated plea but something more understanding, playful even, levied towards a master of the game who recognized his shortcomings and took his losses with grace. Not the perspective of the desperate, love-broke wreck facing the judgement of a harsh and criticizing lover that Pete had imagined.

"You better you better you bet!"

Pete usually played the coda to the song pretty relaxed (by his standards, anyway) but tonight he chose to emphasize each power chord with a bounce and a swing, then, jumped for the last one, shaking his guitar right next to Roger to warble the sound to an end.

He looked up at Roger, who in turn was facing him to watch him close out the song; Roger flashed him a quick smile, then faced back towards the audience to drink up their applause. Pete only watched Roger as he introduced the next song. 

Miraculously, Pete had been able to push the nose thing from his thoughts for as long as he was playing; however, once they left the stage briefly before the encore, the incident flashed back to the forefront of his mind. What had Roger meant by it? Pete was still too stunned by its happening to try and understand its reasoning.

He stood there in the near-dark of the stage wing, probably looking more than a little shell-shocked as the crowd continued to roar. Clutching his guitar as if it were a lifeline, he nearly jumped in surprise when John brushed up against his shoulder.

"'Ere," was all John said, taking the cigarette from his own mouth and offering it to Pete.

"I'm alright," Pete tried to say, not because he didn't want the cigarette but because he balked at the thought that he looked like he needed it.

John simply frowned. "Who are you and where's the real Pete?"

"That's what I've been bloody asking," Pete snarked back, lip curling at the sourness of the jest. He accepted the cigarette and took a quick puff; fuck, he had needed this. "Cheers."

After a couple more puffs he handed it back to John, and Pete quickly took in the other man's appearance. He looked about as haggard as Pete himself, especially now that he was no longer dying his hair.

"Ready to blow your voice out?" Pete quipped, but he couldn't muster the necessary cheer to make it sound encouraging. Fucking hell, I've become a cynic.

"Not the last thing I'll be blowing out tonight," John answered with a genuine smirk. Pete snorted, and a feeling like an old wire sparking to life stirred in him, a few tiny glimmers of an immature and carefree teenagehood tempted from their sleep by Pete's oldest friend.

"Who to the stage, I repeat, Who to the stage…" one of the roadies called out, as if the "whos" in question couldn't already feel the pull of the encore as surely as they could their own heartbeat.

Summertime Blues went off without a hitch, and Pete looked over to John with a knowing glance before they started Twist and Shout. He recalled the now-famous anecdote of Lennon recording the song while sick as a dog and losing his voice for a week after nailing the take. He also recalled the Who playing it at the encore for Isle of Wight back in '70, the very first time John had worn his skeleton getup.

Gone were the days of albums recorded in a day and pushing through hell and high water to deliver. Gone were the days of youthful vitality and invulnerability. Gone were the days of Keith Moon and John Lennon.

The start of the song broke him from his melancholic musing- that was the point of them adding it to the setlist, after all, in joyful remembrance of Lennon- and he once again used the energy of the song to suspend himself against gravity and time whilst the crowd clapped along. At the same time, he noticed Roger drifting closer to him, until he was right by his side, bouncing in place right next to Pete's mic.

So much for all that about 'not being able to dance to Kenney's drumming,' Pete bitched to himself. They didn't usually share a mic for this, but, he couldn't exactly stop Roger from coming over to his.

"Well shake it up baby, now-" "Shake it up baby!" "Twist and shout-" "Twist and shout!"

John's serrated vocals cut through the song, clearing a way for Pete and Roger's smoother voices to back him up; it all came together perfectly, early Beatles a-la-Who. However, Pete's eyes were glued to Roger, who would glance back to John after each line with a grin.

Then, for the solo, Roger looked right up at Pete with a smile; he felt his breath catch in his throat. Don't let him win, he told himself, exaggerating his bounces as his guitar soared. Then, even as he was soloing he spun around, back facing the audience, and bumped right up against Roger, brushing his shoulderblades against the man's shoulders; as he trilled between two notes for the climax he ducked his head back onto Roger's shoulder for a moment as if swept into thoughtless bliss by the music. 

He spun back around to face the audience for a final arm swing upwards to end the solo, looking down at his guitar rather than daring to face Roger. To his pleasant surprise, the other man had moved back towards center stage and was using his own mic for the rising vocal. 

Did it work? Pete hadn't been able to see Roger's face, so he wasn't sure; he'd just have to wait and see. 

He didn't dare look at Roger during the finale of See Me, Feel Me; he'd played the song with the other man hundreds of times, and yet Roger's performance always ran the risk of cutting open Pete's chest and reaching right in to grab his heart. That rarely happened nowadays, but it just wasn't worth chancing it.

The triumphant chorus of Listening To You culminated in a scrape along the strings and a clatter of cymbals, and the show was over. He was pretty sure he saw Kenney eyeing him as if to ask if he wanted to go for drinks, but Pete could only guess that the look on his face was enough to discourage it. Pete didn't speak a word on the way back to the hotel, nor for the rest of the night. 

He tossed and turned that night, unable to sleep and just barely able to resist the call of his brandy flask. What had Roger meant by that? I just like your nose. That had been a silly line, not a throwaway but far from his best, inspired by an affair he'd had with a young woman who'd shown him her passport to prove she wasn't underaged. (One of the many reasons why he and Karen were now separated, all of them his fault.) She'd had a cute nose, that much was true, though it was mostly just to fit the rhyme. Had Roger flipped it around, interpreted the line as being directed towards Pete rather than from him, (or at least, the song's hypothetical singer based on Pete but not literally him)? Surely he hadn't intended it mockingly, right? Roger was not the kind to stoop to something so petty, and he certainly wouldn't come out swinging with this out of nowhere. The two were on good enough terms, except for Roger wanting Kenney out of the band and Pete refusing. Well, Pete and John were refusing, but Kenney was Pete's friend and he'd been the one to push for him in particular. Somehow, it had become the three-against-one again.

…Maybe they weren't on as good of terms as Pete thought. Roger must've figured out that Pete was rapidly losing interest in the Who. But that was nothing to do with Roger, really, it was everything else. He was stuck, an old and corroded gear amidst the machinery, still expected to bear the load of the operation. He was miserable.

And he still had no clue what Roger had meant.

-

They had another show the next night at that same venue, so Pete found himself cajoled from bed some time past noon by non-stop knocking on his door.

Some part of him wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and leave the sound checks to the roadies, just leave the tiger in its cage until it was time for the circus, thank you very much, but Pete knew that complacency bred problems, and problems could be disastrous when you had tens of thousands of people paying to see you.

"I'm awake! Fuck off!" he shouted.

The time between waking and the show was a haze; he must've eaten something, but he couldn't tell you what. It was as if everything off the stage was on a vaguely nauseating fast forward. There was some tedious issue with the sound that had thrown off some of the techs, but somehow it resolved itself after enough fiddling around and swearing.

Before Pete knew it, the show had begun.

The first few songs went smoothly. Everything else be damned, Pete could play, always. He recalled the show he'd done nearly fall-down drunk, shortly after Cincinnati, which he'd played just fine- up until after the last song, when he'd passed out and Roger had to step in and carry him off stage. 

Pete frowned and looked down at his guitar, ready for Sister Disco, trying his best to put that memory from his mind. Yet another instance of getting closer to Roger, but not in the way he wanted.

Speaking of which, the finale of Sister Disco was approaching, so he made his way back to the foot of Kenney's kit and plopped himself down. Playing guitar while sitting reminded him of the studio, and so sitting down while on stage felt a bit unnatural, but Roger sitting down next to him put him more at ease- usually. The fact that Roger always looked so pleased to be there next to him usually improved his mood, but now, it only felt like Pete was lying to him, in a way. 

"Goodbye, Sister Disco…" they sang together- truly, together. They weren't each others' Sister Discos, giving a reciprocal farewell; rather, they were jointly bidding Sister Disco goodbye. Forsake the past, move towards something truer.

But now, Roger was to be part of Pete's past. He felt it hurtling towards him, the end of the Who, or the end of him. He couldn't do this for much longer, he really couldn't.

Roger watched him as he played the coda, eyes focused, expectant, familiar, and Pete couldn't help but feel sorry for the man, as if he were unknowingly watching Pete play the Who away, goodbye, Brother Daltrey.

Pete looked away, stood up as the audience applauded, and took his place at his mic for You Better You Bet. 

"You better you better you bet, oooooh…"

Get on with it, Peter, he told himself, and tried to push the turmoil aside. So long as he was on stage, it didn't exist. So long as he was on stage, he could defy gravity, and forget his problems. He could look to his right, towards Roger, and past him to John, and not feel his heart squeeze a little out of sync. 

And then Roger started moving closer to his mic, smiling.

"I want those feeble-minded axes overthrown-"

"Oooooh," Pete sang, watching Roger with confusion.

"I'm not into your passport picture, I just like your nose!" 

And Roger tapped his nose. 

With a finger, he'd tapped Pete's nose, quick and feather-light, a grin on his face.

Then he turned back to the audience like nothing had happened.

Pete missed that "Oooh," but recovered for the next, and didn't let his playing get too sloppy in surprise. 

What the hell?

Had Roger been… teasing him? A wink-wink nudge-nudge I-know-you're-a-big-strong-boy-who-can-take-some-ribbing thing? Or was it a sincere attempt at an insincere compliment?

He eyed Roger warily for the rest of the song, but the other man once again showed no indication that anything was amiss, or different, or that anything had happened at all.

As the song wound down and Behind Blue Eyes began, Pete found that he'd lost the hold he'd had on the music, not ever quite getting back into the depths of the pocket. He sounded just fine, but he was keeping his eyes glued to his guitar, trying to get back into the professional headspace he'd just been patting himself on the back for. After a frustratingly subpar Behind Blue Eyes, he used a brief opportunity on Another Tricky Day to grab a cig and light it lightning-quick. Roger hated breathing in smoke, which gave Pete an excuse to keep his eyes to the left and facing away from Roger, though he could only keep it for about a minute before the song demanded his full attention, both hands, and his mouth.

Song after song, Pete felt his frustration grow, and did his best to put it back into his playing rather than anywhere else, windmilling with abandon and letting his legs do as they pleased, taking him around the stage and high into the air. He shared a glance with Kenney, who smiled back at him- a good sign that he was successfully covering his anger- and then one with John, who blinked in just a way that told Pete that he, at least, had cottoned on to something being amiss.

Feeling slightly chastised by John's perceptiveness, Pete took a breath and tried to rein it in. He wasn't a reckless, iconoclastic young man anymore, who could make a fool of himself and somehow get praised for it; he was a grown man and he needed to act like it.

And then Roger approached him once again during the last part of Won't Get Fooled Again, a thunderous figure with a smile on his face, and Pete thought, what the hell?

Roger bumped against him, head leaning back on Pete's shoulder and out of the corner of his eye he could see a look of ecstacy on his face. Pete shoved himself as close as he could against the other man without compromising his ability to continue playing, hooking his chin over the other man's shoulder and pressing his cheek against Roger's. He felt the brush of Roger's heavy exhale against skin; then, he dragged his head back and trailed his nose through Roger's hair, a faint, sweet smell greeting him for just a moment before it faded and left Pete wondering if he'd imagined it.

Roger stepped forward, still bouncing, and began to twirl his mic, not looking back to Pete, who now swung his arm to give the audience something, anything to look at that wasn't him smushing his face against his bandmate like an overly affectionate dog.

The lights began to freak out for the very end of the song, and Pete jumped with every strum, then looked up at Kenney to finish it, and- wham.

The song was over, the lights sparkled him blind for a couple seconds, then he blinked and shook his head. He looked back up at Kenney for a moment, as if to check if he'd vanished in the show of lights and smoke, and the other man looked back at him with a nod, then a grin, and mouthed- having fun?

For a few seconds there, Pete had felt lightened, as if he'd reached some kind of climax between himself and Roger, that the turmoil had faded with the smell of the other man's hair product, but, no: he'd really just done that in front of tens of thousands of people. And it had not gone unnoticed.

Fuck this, he told himself, and for the rest of the show, he found himself once again in that off-kilter place just outside the pocket, the endless energy fuzzed and distorted by his own frustration.

-

Pete was now a man in need of a resolution.

He didn't care if he'd look pathetic in front of Roger- well, no, he did care, but he needed this to end. This business with Roger, and with the Who. No, not by quitting on the spot or anything, but he needed to make it clear to the other man: the ride was almost over.

Because the Who was Roger's band. It always had been. Pete might have been in the driver's seat for quite a stretch of road there, but Roger owned the car.

And he owed it to him to tell him he was done, or, nearly done. They were on the hook for another album and tour, at the least. But Pete would be taking his exit as soon as those legal obligations were fulfilled. He could last that long, he was pretty sure. He'd been weighing whether or not to tell the others- if they took it poorly, he'd have a pretty miserable next year or so- but deep down, he knew it would be wrong to blindside them with this.

Which was why he found himself knocking on Roger's hotel room door that night. He'd done his best to clean himself up a little, and he'd only taken a single sip of his brandy- a true feat of self-control.

"Coming!" came Roger's voice through the door; then, the door swung open to reveal the man in question, shirtless and wearing only sweatpants.

"Pete?" Roger asked, a small bit of worry entering his voice.

"Rog, I-" Pete began, then realized he was about to jump right into it and that the doorway was not the best place to say all of this. So, he sort of waved at Roger to go back into the room; Roger narrowed his eyes but turned around and did just that, leaving Pete to awkwardly enter, close the door behind himself, and trail after him. Roger plopped himself down on the foot of his bed, leaving Pete to take the cracking faux-leather chair at the tiny desk opposite the bed.

Roger crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly, but rather than looking imposing, Pete couldn't help but read the pose as… youthful? Innocent? Neither of those things described Roger- Pete wasn't sure if the latter ever had- yet the other man had always been imbued with a strange juxtaposition of lightness and toughness, and right now, the former was eclipsing the latter.

"I just want to say, that, before I tell you this, I don't want you to think it's your fault," Pete started; he paused as something flashed across Roger's expression, shattering through the lightness, and Pete blinked as he realized what was off: Roger was not in a good mood at all. He was worried.

"I'm leaving the Who. I'm done with it. After the next album and tour- I'm going."

Roger worked his jaw once, arms still crossed, and then… his body settled, and he nodded. "Right."

Pete waited for whatever came next.

Roger said nothing.

"Well?" Pete demanded. 

"Well I'm- I'm not surprised," Roger responded. "I can tell… I mean. You've been…"

"A fucking mess?"

"Unhappy."

Pete hung his head. "Am I that obvious?"

"Subtlety's not your strong suit."

Pete looked back up at Roger, but none of what he'd expected was to be found in the other man's expression: no anger or resentment to be seen. In fact, that response had almost seemed… fond?

"You're not angry." It wasn't a question, just a statement, slightly befuddled.

"Like I said, I'm not surprised," Roger reiterated, finally letting his arms uncross, "And I'm not going to go off on you because I know it's not going to change your mind. And it wouldn't be right to argue with you on this. And… it would be pretty foolish, to think it could keep going forever."

Roger's eyes dropped to the floor as he uttered that last sentence, and Pete realized that he was just as much trying to convince himself as he was Pete. Sure, it seemed Roger had read Pete's intentions before tonight, but he hadn't completely made his peace with them. And yet, here he was, telling Pete he wasn't going to argue with his decision.

Dammit, Daltrey. Once again, Roger had left Pete unsure and on uneven footing. 

"Maybe it was a bit silly to keep this going, after…" Pete said, not willing to voice aloud what they were both thinking. "But I know what this means to you. And to John. And to Kenney, now."

Roger visibly restrained a reaction to that last name, which Pete appreciated.

"I'm not doing this to, you know, burn it all down. I just… can't do it anymore. I'm done. And, you know, the whole thing has run its course, anyways-"

"-I don't think so," Roger interrupted. "I don't- I'm not going to argue with you leaving, but, that doesn't mean that, y'know, you couldn't have stayed."

Something sank in Pete's heart. So Roger wasn't letting him go that easily. He wasn't going to argue, but he was going to resent him for it.

"Don't- it's not like that," Roger said with faint annoyance, and Pete realized he must've let his thoughts show on his face. "It's- I'm not going to hold this against you, Pete. You're not… it doesn't all revolve around you."

"Thank fucking God for that," Pete said, rubbing his hands down his face- which fortunately served to hide his smile as Roger chuckled a bit at the jest.

"But. Y'know. 'M glad you told me," Roger said, once again crossing his arms. Pete suppressed a frown; was there still something amiss?

Well. Pete supposed he owed Roger one more thing, at the very least.

"You know you look like a poof, right?" he blurted out. 

Confusion borne of shock overtook Roger's expression. "Eh?"

"Dancing right up against me on stage. You… look like a poof," Pete clarified, now feeling more than a little awkward.

"And what's so wrong with that?" Roger asked, a twinge of defiance entering his tone.

Pete snorted. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," Roger replied, defiance creeping forwards but still confused.

Pete, too, was confused. What was Roger getting at with this? Was he trying to do a what's-so-wrong-with-being-gay thing? Was this out of some desire to support Pete, who'd practically announced to the entire world that he liked men with everything around Empty Glass?

"It means," he said slowly, "You should stop rubbing up against me or people are going to think you're gay."

"I still don't see the problem," Roger said, now fully defensive.

"What- what the hell is this about, Roger?" Pete now demanded, leaning forwards in his seat.

"It's about how I don't see why you should have a problem with me looking like a poof."

"I don't- why would I have a problem with that?" 

"Then there's no problem!" Roger shot back.

"Of course there's a fucking problem!" Pete replied, standing up to reclaim his height advantage.

"Then use. Your. Words. Tell me, Pete," Roger defied… then scoffed, and, as if defeated, "Just say it."

"Say- what do you want, I mean-" Pete sputtered, utterly lost. He rubbed his face, thinking back to how they'd gotten here. "Look. Just. I don't care if you look like a poof. Just don't get so close to me all the time on stage."

He took his hand from his face to see a crestfallen expression on Roger's face.

"It's- don't look at me like that, you know why."

"Right. I…  I really thought- the way you were acting, I'd…" Roger let out a dark chuckle and averted his eyes. "I'd convinced myself you felt the same way. I'm… I was wrong. Obviously."

Pete frowned, unable to follow Roger's words. "Feel the same about what?"

Roger looked up at him. "About… us."

"What?" What was Roger talking about now? The band? How'd they get back on that?

Roger blinked. "What do-" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Sorry, Pete, I- just to be sure. Why don't you want me to get close with you?"

Pete eyed him. "Because I'm a poof and everybody knows it." Then, after a moment, "Bisexual. I suppose. I do still like women."

Roger tilted his head, still watching Pete. "But that's not what you were getting at."

"Are you really going to make me fucking say it?" Pete snapped before he could restrain himself. 

Roger's face softened, almost supplicant. "Please… whatever it is, I'm not- I'm not going to hold it against you. I swear. Just tell me."

"I…" Pete began, then, for the second time that night, told himself: what the hell? "You know, back in the day. After Tommy. I felt… some measure of attraction, towards you."

A thoughtful look crossed Roger's face. "I wondered… I was never sure, but-"

"Well, there you have it. I thought you were attractive. Same as thousands of girls did."

"But not anymore."

Pete huffed. "I'm not- I don't have a crush anymore, no. But you're still… well, you."

"You mean…?" Roger trailed off, seemingly truly surprised.

"Yes, Roger, you are still extremely attractive," Pete said, slightly condescending. Roger, however, smiled a true smile, and even gave a small laugh.

"So if you…" Roger paused to rub his nose. "If, hypothetically, back then, I'd shown an interest. Would you have taken me up on it?"

Pete narrowed his eyes. "What kind of question is that?"

Roger shrugged, and Pete could see that the inexplicable lightness had returned in earnest. "An innocent one?"

Pete scoffed. "I don't know. I really can't say. Never would've happened, so, does it matter?"

Then, realizing what Roger might be getting at, "I wouldn't- I'd never make a move on you if you didn't want it. You… trust me on that, right?"

"No, hold on, that's not what I mean! I don't- I'd be flattered, that is. If you made a move on me," Roger responded sincerely.

"Ah. Well. Hooray for my younger self," Pete said with false cheer.

"What about now?"

Pete frowned at the sudden earnest question. "What about 'about now'?"

"If I made a move on you now."

Pete scoffed, shifting his weight on his feet. "What is the fucking point of this, Roger?"

At that, Roger finally stood up. He took a step to stand right next to Pete, but it wasn't an aggressive move at all, so Pete stood stock-still.

"The point is that I want to know if I can kiss you," Roger said, looking up into his eyes.

Pete froze.

"Can I…?"

What?

Had this been why…?

Pete- slowly, confusedly- nodded.

Roger leaned forwards, rising up on his toes. He put a warm hand to Pete's cheek, then kissed him. It wasn't chaste, but neither was it long, and no tongue was involved. It was just Roger's lips against his, affectionate, tender, but brief.

"I-I'm married," Pete stuttered out, the first thought that came to mind that he could actually put into words. As if that's ever stopped me before.

"I thought you and Karen…" Roger trailed off, searching Pete's face.

Pete closed his eyes to Roger's inquiring gaze. You didn't see it, you didn't hear it… "No, you're right, we've separated."

"'M sorry."

He opened his eyes again. Roger was no longer on tip-toe, and seemed to be truly earnest in his sympathy. Something about that struck right at Pete's heart, that Roger really was sorry things had gone badly for Pete's marriage, even though that had opened the door for him to make a move now.

"Roger, you- if you're having me on, I'm going to fucking kill you," Pete said, voice shaky and empty of any true threat.

"No, Pete, I'd- I'd never do that," Roger said, punctuating the sentiment with a couple shakes of his head.

"I know, I'm sorry, I…" Pete rubbed his face again, at a loss for thoughts, for feelings, for words. "I'm sorry."

"You got nothin' to apologize for, Pete."

"'Course I do. I'm walking away from all this, Roger. Why now? I thought- I thought you were straight."

At that, Roger looked down at the floor, then took a step back and sat back down on the edge of the bed. "So did I. But you were pulling away, and then the overdose, and I realized… I love the Who. The Who is my life. But I realized that I would bloody well miss you, Pete. Not just the band, not just the performing… you. And I had a long, hard think about it. Hardest I've thought in my bloody life."

Then, Roger looked up. "And besides, uh, well… I like it rough, and you like it rough, and…"

"...Sexually?" Pete couldn't help but question aloud.

"Uh, yeah." Roger answered it as if it were obvious.

"You want to have sex with me," Pete stated, waiting for the other man to correct him.

"Well yeah, that's part of it, innit? Not all of it, but- a lot of it."

Roger gave a lopsided smile as if to say, well, what can you do about it?

"And I do like your nose," he added, and Roger might as well have punched the damn thing by the way it made Pete flinch.

"Come off it," Pete scoffed, but something made him sit down on the bed next to the other man- not quite touching, but close. Vulnerable.

"Is it really so hard to believe?" Roger asked in a light, teasing tone. Not pushing it hard.

"I… Give me time. Maybe I'll believe it," Pete said, and found that he did believe it- well, believed in the possibility that he could believe it one day. That Roger Daltrey found him attractive.

"Time? 'Course. There's no rush-"

"-No, that's not- I mean, that you like my… face," Pete cut him off.

True, unguarded hope filled Roger's eyes. "But now, would you…?"

"I thought if I got close to you then you'd see that you looked like a poof so that you'd stop teasing me with something I'd never get," Pete blurted out.

"...What?" Now it was Roger's turn to be taken aback.

Pete looked right at him, into his beautiful, utterly shocked eyes. "I'm not over you, Roger. I never was."

The truth was the weight off his chest that Pete had been looking for. Even if it hadn't been under these strange, ludicrous, impossible circumstances- the truth had set him free.

"So… you…?"

"Kiss me. Please."

Roger grinned, then swooped in and kissed him, harder than he had before. Pete gladly kissed back, but he was already falling to pieces at the other man's touch. Roger took the chance to cup Pete's face in his hands, and Pete closed his eyes, overwhelmed. With superhuman effort, he kicked his shoes off, then began to scoot back on the bed, letting Roger take the initiative and push Pete down onto his back. Roger's hands were warm, his lips were soft, his tongue was quick, and Pete didn't have to open his eyes to know he was gorgeous. 

Roger continued to stake claim on Pete's mouth even as he moved one hand up to splay his fingers in Pete's hair, and slid the other one down to Pete's waist, eliciting an involuntary sigh. Roger suddenly pulled back, and Pete opened his eyes, wondering if perhaps the spell had been broken, if Roger had realized what he was doing and who he was doing it with and was regretting all of it- but no, Roger was smiling. It was the truest smile Pete had seen on the other man in… he didn't know how long.

"Yer fuckin' beautiful," Pete told him, all the while something in his heart was breaking. 

Roger seemed not to notice, instead reaching his hand back up to brush Pete's fringe out of his eyes. Then, Roger frowned.

"Pete? What's wrong?"

Pete shut his eyes, feeling the tears pooling in them. "Rog, I'm- I'm a fucking mess."

"You're gorgeous."

"I can't- I'm leaving, Roger. I'm walking away. This won't- this won't fix things."

"I didn't… that's not what this is, Pete. I'm not trying to seduce you into staying."

Pete reopened his eyes. Roger looked sad, yes, but sincere.

God. He really meant it. He really was going to let Pete walk away, he really was doing his best to try and not resent Pete for it, and he really… he really did think Pete was gorgeous.

"I'm a selfish bugger, Roger. You should hate me," he tried to insist, but it only sounded pathetic.

"It's not selfish, Pete. It's- you're a selfish git, sometimes, but not now. You think we don't see it? I don't want you killing yourself for my happiness. Especially not…"

"Don't," Pete pleaded, feeling the name rising to the surface of the conversation, "Please."

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry-" Roger leaned down and kissed the tip of Pete's nose, then wiped the tears that had escaped onto his cheeks, "I'm sorry, Pete. I didn't want to make you cry."

"It's not you. It's… it's not you," Pete told him, wanting to reach out and rip the guilt right off of Roger's face. But, he didn't have to: Roger simply nodded, then ran his hand through Pete's hair again.

"Come here," Roger said, then crawled up to lean against the pillow. Still laying down, Pete turned his head to see Roger reaching out a hand. Squeezing his eyes shut, Pete crawled after him, letting the other man take him in his arms. Pete buried his face between Roger's shoulder and the pillow, feeling the other man's hair against his own forehead.

Roger ran a hand along Pete's back, eliciting an involuntary shudder. The tears had passed, and he was more comfortable than he'd been in… he didn't know how long. Then, Roger leaned his head down to kiss the crown of Pete's head, and he for all the world thought that he might melt into a warm nothingness then and there.

After a moment, Roger spoke. Pete could feel the rumble of his throat against his own skin; it was a fascinating sensation.

"If we- if we're done. With the Who. That doesn't have to be the end of us. Roger and Pete." 

Pete, reluctantly, adjusted himself to free his face from the pillow. "We've not gotten along much, outside the band."

"Maybe without the band, it'll be different. And I'll still be performing. You'll be going wherever. It's not… I'm not asking for a white picket fence here."

Roger said it as if he meant to not come on too strong, but the fact that he had to deny such an idea was astounding to Pete: he really did want to be with him, not just hold him or kiss him. Without even having to think about it, Pete had made up his own mind, too: he was willing to try this with Roger. Being together, as them, not as half of the Who. Maybe that was what he'd been looking forward to, all this time.

"'Course not. Not with your bloody mansion," he snarked after a moment, feeling utterly at ease in Roger's arms, the two of them looking up at the ceiling as if to ponder their good fortune.

"It's nice! You'd like it."

"I'm not going fucking fishing."

"It's a big house. Could put in a studio."

"It's been ten minutes and you already want me to move in?"

"I… I suppose not. But you'll be around, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be around. Besides, we do still have another album to do."

"Blimey, almost forgot about that. Do you have anything for it?"

"Don't want to think about it right now."

"What do you want to think about?"

"You want to… you said. You're not straight. Have you…?"

"Not yet. I was… well. I had this stupid idea that you would be my first."

"That's- fuckin' hell, Roger."

"I didn't- I didn't know what to expect! Besides, I could only fuck birds the rest of my life and I'd be happy, just…"

"I mean I'm flattered, Rog. I mean it."

"Oh. Right."

"...Anyone else?"

"Eh?"

"Any other men?"

"Er… not really, no."

"Really."

"I swear! 'S just you. Well… sometimes I'll see someone, see a bloke, and I'll think, they look a bit like you. So yeah, them, I guess…"

"Yer fuckin' serious."

"I'm serious."

"You know I'm a woman, too, right?"

"Eh? Oh- right. Do you… dress up…?"

"No. I'm just. Also a woman."

"Well. I like women. So it shouldn't be a problem."

"Suppose not. And I'd prefer it… y'know… like a woman…"

"Well I was hoping you'd say that, because I wouldn't prefer that."

"Didn't think so."

"And you know I like it rough."

"Yes, Roger. I've walked in on you with a bird in our hotel room before."

"And you did Rough Boys."

"Yes."

"And you…"

"I'd very much like you to push me against a wall and fuck me silly. Among other things."

Roger shifted a bit. "Right now?"

"Yeah, if you…"

It felt like they hadn't moved an inch in forever, so Pete was almost startled by Roger suddenly taking Pete's hand in his own. The other man moved Pete's hand to… ah. It seemed Roger was quite excited.

"...Let me wash up first," Pete said, looking over at the measured smile on Roger's face.

Roger nodded. "I'll grab the lube."