30 reasons why - Roger Taylor

-REASON TWELVE-

June 18th, 1979.

Today is the day.

Rosie woke up at four in morning, and her body was fucking sweating. Her head was pounding, and she felt weak. Breathing heavy, tears rolling down her face and her eyes wide open, she nudged Roger awake, and he remembered.

This wasn't a Rosie that had just woken up from a nightmare, or suddenly woke up wanting comfort. She was a mess—a complete mess of emotions she was able to conceal up until this morning where it all just spilled. Her arms shook and her lips trembled, and God knows that was the breaking point.

He took her into his embrace and held her. No words, no moves, nothing. It was just him and her together under the blankets, her head on his bare chest and shivering there while he rubbed patterns on her back in comfort. The hugs and the back rubs, the silence of the room and him playing with her hair all in the effort to soothe Rosie this cold June morning. He took her in her most fragile state, kissed the top of her head, and he waited.

Eventually, this would have to end and when it was seven, Roger left to make breakfast for them both.

While her boyfriend was out in the kitchen, Rosie was still shivering, and it was already starting to heat up outside. She can't help it—every year, on this day, the same thing always happens. She never leaves the bed—the home in general—and she barely even eats, or talks, or shows any emotion at all. It's basically like she's dead.

And then the next day, everything is normal.

There is a lingering sense of loneliness in her even when she is surrounded by the love Roger gives her. Whenever he checks in on her, he always asks: "Ljubav, are you okay?", "Are you hungry? I made French toast if you want some", "I'm here, Rosie, I'm here. Do you want to talk about it?"

As he comes by to check in on her, their breakfast is already made and waiting in the kitchen, he finds her curled up in a ball, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hair is wild and disheveled, her hands hold her knees against her chest, and she looks as if she had been crying the moment he left the bed.

Roger wastes no time and trots to the bed. He grabs Rosie's hand and tugs, leading her out of the door and at the top of the stairs as she knits her eyebrows together in confusion.

"Rog, what are you—"

"Wait here. I'm going to get our breakfast."

What. In. The. Fuck.

Today was supposed to be a day of mourning, the day that marks seven years since Vjekoslava died, Rosie being notified by a phone call from a hospital in Dubrovnik. Not for Roger to force her out of bed and make her wait at the top of stairs as he goes get their food. What was he thinking? That they were going to have a picnic?

When he comes back with a plate of French toast (she's in denial that he made this) and a can of whipped cream, he opens the window. "We're going to the roof—"

"What?"

"Come on! Move it or else we won't see the sunrise!" Roger gently shoves her towards the window, holding her hand as she slowly climbed out onto the roof of their home, him following right after.

They've done this before—a couple of times actually. Dinner on the rooftop for their fourth year anniversary, Rosie's twenty-fourth birthday, Valentine's Day 1976, another for Roger's twenty-eight birthday. But for the seven year anniversary of the day Rosie's mother basically drunk herself to death? You must be kidding.

They found themselves sitting on the roof, overlooking the sun as it rose above the horizon. Roger sitting next to Rosie with the plate of French toast next to him, the can of whipped cream in front of him, his legs straight out, and his arms unsure of whether to hold her hand or to place them on her back.