Fight From the Inside

2 | A White Room With Black Curtains

Roger puffed on his cigarette, frowning upwards at the sky. He'd gone out early that morning (well, early for him) to scout out any cheap finds he and Freddie could refurbish or do some basic tailoring on and resell at their stall, but instead found himself in the middle of a stare-off with some perilous storm clouds. 'It'd better not fucking rain', he thought, 'because I am not in the state of mind to deal with some fucking rain.'

Mother Nature didn't care. Mere seconds after cursing whatever god was in charge of storms, the heavens opened up and dumped heavy, lazy raindrops on his blonde head. Scattered at first, and then all at once, he attempted to dance in between the fat rain drops, but the attempt was moot.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck", he shouted to the sky. Running as fast as he could in his tight bell bottoms and his platform shoes, he searched for any kind of solace he could find, and that solace came in the form of a familiar stoop - the one he'd been at the night before, walking Madeline home. God, he hoped she was home...

He ran up to the stoop, frantically searching for her name in the registry, and frustratedly slammed the button next to her name. After a solid thirty seconds of no response, he held down the buzzer for twice as long, and anxiously awaited any reply at all, feeling the water beginning to soak through his black shirt and cause his blonde hair to cling to his head. Finally, he heard a faint crackle, and then a familiar voice.

"Allo?"

"Hey! Hey, it's Roger, uh, Roger Taylor, from Queen. It's fucking dumping out here, could you l-"

He heard a buzz reply and the door unlocked. Thanking the same gods he cursed, he pushed through the heavy door and made his way up two flights of stairs, shoes making a gross squishing sound the entire way up. The squishing was eventually taken over by the muffled sound of a Led Zeppelin record as he counted the door numbers to himself, searching for the number 32. He stalled, staring at the door number he'd desired, and jumped suddenly as the door numbered 22 opened next to him. An older man emerged, gave roger a brief glance, and then joined him at the bottom of the flight to glance upwards at 32.

"Fucking again?" The old man followed Roger up the stairs, and Roger looked on in amusement as the old man banged hard on the door, clearly frustrated.

Madeline answered the door, toothbrush in mouth, wearing an oversized Beatles shirt and a small pair of yellow bicycle shorts. Her eyes first darted to a very soggy Roger, and then to the old man, whose face had now become a purple color.

"I'm not gonna tell you again", he shouted over the rumble of music. "Turn that garbage down!"

The old man turned around and almost ran into Roger, which caused Madeline to erupt into a fit of giggles, a thin spray of toothpaste emitting from her mouth. A second glance at a soaked Roger caused her to go into a full-on convulsion, and Roger pretended to scowl at her, beginning to giggle himself, as she waved for him to enter.

As he shut the door behind him, a large fluffy black cat immediately began to use his legs as a place on which to rub his face. The music was turned down as he looked around her flat briefly, silently admiring the barrage of posters of various bands, until his vision was obscured by Madeline throwing a towel at his head. He used it to shake the water out of his hair, but much to his avail it still clung to his chest and shoulders, dripping at the tips. A fat drop of water landed right onto the cat's head, which caused it to go running under a nearby table, adorned by the offending record player and speakers attached.

Madeline spit out her toothpaste into the kitchen sink, bending over to cup her hands under the faucet, bringing it to her mouth as she repeatedly rinsed the remainder of the paste from her mouth. Roger watched as her calves flexed, quickly averting his gaze as she turned to face him.

"Rough afternoon?" Madeline took the towel from Roger's shoulders, using the driest side she could find to ruffle his hair with.

"You could say the least", he said, bending to unzip his platforms, leaving them to dry by the front door. "Fucking rain."

"What brings you to the neighborhood?" She pulled her long hair into a loose ponytail, sitting on her couch, tapping the spot next to her. He sat, slowly, tight wet clothes being unforgiving to movement.

"I was looking for things for the stall Freddie and I have in Kensington market", he replied. After a long blank stare from Madeline, he added, "...day job."

"Ah", she replied, picking up the acoustic guitar next to her. "Sounds like a good start to a song."

"Everything is a good start to a song", he added, gently prying the guitar from her hands. He struck an E minor chord, followed by an A minor, and nodded towards his shoes next to the door. "My new purple shoes... been amazing the people next door." She giggled, patiently listening. With the strum of a G, he added, "and my rock and roll 45's... been enraging the folks on the lower floor."

She threw her head back in laughter, pulling her legs up against her chest. He joined in on her laughter, admiring that laugh of hers as subtly as possible.

She abruptly stood up, went to her bedroom, and shouted "d'you need some dry clothes?"

"Couldn't hurt", he replied, and was surprised to see her tossing some kind of shirt his way. He set the guitar to the side and held it up to his chest; as it unraveled, she struggled to hold a straight face as he realized it was a spaghetti strap tank top about twenty sizes too small for him, his face twisting in mock-disappointment. After regaining her composure, she returned with a matching Beatles shirt, roughly the same size as her own. Handing it to him as she sat down, he immediately pulled off the drenched black shirt he'd had on, struggling to get it over his head. She couldn't help but stare at his bare tanned chest, glistening with rain water, blonde hair immediately sticking to his shoulders as he replaced his damp shirt with her fresh dry one.

"Well, let me wring out your shirt and place it to dry", she said, getting up and nodding at the radiator next to the window. Roger strummed the guitar softly as she wrung out his shirt in the kitchen sink and watched her strategically place it on the radiator, staring briefly out the window as she finished placing it. The rain pattered threateningly at the window, accompanied by a deafening thunderclap. She gave an apprehensive glance to Roger, one eyebrow cocked up, and then the lights flickered out. The soft crooning of Robert Plant ended abruptly and Madeline replied with a sigh.

"Fuck this old building", she said. "Got a lighter on you?"

Roger produced his lighter from his jeans, still stiff with wet, and lit it after a few tries.

She took it gently from his fingers and kept it lit, trying not to let it flicker out as she carefully checked pantry cupboards for candles. Finally she produced one from behind a pile of plates and lit it carefully as to not singe her finger. She set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch, using an old magazine to set it upon.

She sat on the floor by the couch, scratching at the carpet, and the cat trotter over as if he was being called. The cat rubbed against her arm as she stared into the flame, before looking up to Roger.

"I think the storm is getting worse", she said, very matter-of-fact. "You can totally hang out, if you'd like."

"Much appreciated", he replied, sliding onto the floor from the couch, Beatles shirt bunching up slightly at the waist. She felt bad for looking, but she couldn't help it. A firm, tan stomach, dreamy skin accentuated by the flicker of the candle on the table in front of him. She looked away, knowing she couldn't help herself otherwise, and glanced into the kitchen.

"I think I have some vodka in the freezer", she said, turning to him.

"Wanna play truth or dare?"

He looked back at her, one eyebrow cocked upward in curiosity.

"Why not", he giggled. He put a cigarette firmly between his lips as he watched her hips sashay back and forth into the darkness of the kitchen. "Why not", he whispered to himself.