More than just a friend || Roger Taylor

57- gonna treat you right

15th November 1982

Tw- mentions of abuse

I had to tell myself the meeting was gonna go well. Otherwise I wouldn't actually know what to do.

I was good at overthinking. It was one of my best skills. No one could sit on the sofa and bounce their legs and nibble their fingertips quite like I could as another hour of waiting for Roger to walk through the door passed. This 'meeting' Queen were in seemed to last a lot longer that I would've anticipated- which in my opinion meant anything but good.

It was the truth behind what Roger had said to me last week that had me so rattled. I hadn't really realised how much the group meant to him- but it wasn't his career he was worried about loosing. It was his family. It was the three people that had been their by his side for over a decade. That's what he was scared of. Because it was true when he said he wouldn't know what to do without them.

It's also true that between me, Roger, our friends, and our jobs- we never caught a break. Unless we fled the county and unhooked our phones. We didn't get a quiet life with no 'drama' or a weekend with no pictures taken, and maybe I wouldn't do anything to change that fact now (knowing what I've gained from my social status alone) but it's in moments like these when I just wish we lived different lives.

Mine and Roger's relationship hadn't been the same as it was, a few too many patches of roughness that didn't seem to find a bliss of smooth to be forgotten in. Some days had been hard, by fault of the both of us, but I was yet to find out which category today would fit into. I didn't get the chance to analyse his mood before he fled the house at nine o'clock this morning in search of a coffee strong enough to pair his nerves and frustration.

"Fuck 'em." Roger mumbled as he walked through the door, annoyance heavy in his features as he slammed it behind him. I jolted slightly, jumping only an inch as he sighed and dropped his coat to the floor, playing harshly with the cigarette hung between his lips.

It didn't take a genius to discover it hadn't gone well. It hadn't gone well at all. I was stuck on what to say to him as he rushed straight into the kitchen and grabbed the nearest bottle. It wasn't pretty- it was horrid to watch. But I did the exact same thing.

"Roger... what happened ?" I asked quietly, trying to force a calmness into my voice that he would somewhat appreciate as I followed his path into the kitchen. He flicked the lid off of a bottle of vodka and took more than a large sip, wiping his mouth as he slammed it against the counter.

"I don't wanna talk about it Adelynn." He muttered, a weight on his words that dragged them down dramatically through the curdled air we shared.

"Roger..." I didn't say his name because I wanted him to turn around and run into my arms and let out everything he was saying. I said his name because I didn't know what else to say. It was more of a breathe that released itself as a word, a word that came across as more of a plea.

"We're taking a break. That's that. Freddie shows up and he's high... his little fuckin pet trailing behind him. Brian couldn't care less. Fuck knows what John wants. No interviews, no tours, no shows. For god knows how long."

"Shit."

"Let's just go to Charlie's..."

-

Now me and Roger both were often guilty of drinking away our sorrows, but he took it to a slightly different level as soon as we stepped into Charlie's. He sat silently, constantly replacing the leaking cigarette between his lips and ending up on his fifth drink by the time I'd finished my second.

The bar was crammed considering, stuffed full of customers I didn't recognise, but I didn't see Charlie quite as much as I used to. The atmosphere was hot and stuffy, and the dim lights and crackly speakers only forced the desperation of wanting to go home onto me.