More than just a friend || Roger Taylor

1- I know you

3rd November 1977

If someone asked me what I remembered from the first time I met Roger Taylor, the answer would be one short and simple.

His smirk.

It sat so effortlessly on his lips. So easy and oddly gently you could tell he wore it more than he should've. There was nothing different about it, nothing bizarre or odd. It wasn't a trait no other man could master- yet he made you feel like it was. Maybe it was the way his eyes praised his lips, or how his aura complimented his expression so well it caused a flutter in the pit of your stomach that I would deny, but I was instantly drawn in by him.

When my eyes took their first glance at him he looked soft and gentle, a tight pair of jeans clinging to his skinny legs and a leather jacket that most likely cost more than the rent of the pub sat around his torso. It was his eyes that had me staring at first. The soft blue eyes that took up the majority of his face. That and his scruffy blonde hair made me immediately think he could've been kind and light, a nice guy who was simple on the outside and simple within.

They intrigued me, invited me to let my eyes search the rest of his features to see if they paired with the softness I'd labelled him with after that first glance. But it's the way his lips sat in a permanent smirk, the one that gained winks from all the girls that changed it all. It made me think the soft blonde i'd labelled him as was different to who I'd predicted him to be. That was made him so different.

But that's what I remembered when the drummer took a seat beside the newly single brunette in the only bar the two of them could escape to without being smothered my strangers. He sat close to me, the stool beside the one I was on, letting a cigarette burn between his fingers and then watching as the smoke danced through the air, blocking my eyes from the ones I was desperate to meet again. There was something so strangely addictive about that glance he had.

"I know you." His voice didn't sound like it was his. It didn't match his eyes, nor his smirk, nor the leather he wore. It was raspy, which the cigarette he held was to blame for, but not his. I'd heard his voice a million times, the high notes and the gravelly tracks that were repeated on the radio, but I was still caught of guard.

"And I know you. Roger Taylor. Queens drummer." I replied, a smile pulling at each corner of my lips I was trying to deny. One of course caused by that smirk. He never let it break. Not even when he was pulling a cigarette to and from his lips, and then watching as the smoke tangled through the slightly tense air between us.

I didn't tell him, but I was a fan of him and his band. I had all their albums, and listened to them more than would've liked to tell him. It wasn't that I was embarrassed, I just knew from how he wore that smirk he clearly had an ego already too big. Telling him I was a fan of his was bound to only feed into it, which in my eyes wasn't quite worth it.

"Adelynn Petrov. One of the best and most stunning models of the modern world." He stubbed his cigarette in the ash tray between us, not letting his eyes break away from me as he did.

I was a model, a relatively famous one who was shoved in-front of cameras by her famous parents. Her alcoholic mother who depended on wine to leave bed and her father who had more affairs than he did hairs on his head. Two idiots who thought fame was the perfect thing to raise a child in.

I took a sip of my drink, waiting for a moment before I responded, but only to let a sudden bundle of nerves calm themselves. He had that power over me already, and it been barley minutes since I first saw him. I was already starting to feel nervous around him, making sure I didn't embarrass myself and being careful about every move I made, wether it was sipping a drink or brushing a piece of hair away from my eyes to look at his.