30 reasons why - Roger Taylor

-REASON SEVENTEEN-

June 23rd, 1979.

They say that good things don't last forever. For Rosie and Roger, it was the peace and tranquility of their relationship.

The returned smiles and occasional dinner dates, the hugs and the cuddles. It was waking up on a Monday morning and seeing Rosie all snuggled up against Roger, soft kisses on her temple as she drifted in and out of sleep, and a kiss on his neck because she couldn't reach his lips. It was her taking a picture with him to post it on her Snapchat and him going along with it because he still doesn't understand the concept of the app itself. And then it was talking too much in the bathroom as he took a shower, unaware of the time passing by and ending up rushing into the car so Roger wouldn't be late to rehearsals.

That happiness that used to roam around their relationship seemed to cease to exist all within the course of two months, and they were so fucking sick of it. It was like every day was hell as arguments rose out of nowhere and Roger ran into their room, slamming the door behind him.

Like the recent months, today was no different.

It was fairly contained at a price—they hadn't spoken to each other much after their arrival back to London. The whole situation of what happened in Santorini was just too much, and Rosie was afraid to bring it up because of the chances of starting yet another argument.

She began to think that a lot of the reasons for their collapsing relationship was her. Because of the numerous times Roger had yelled at her for being such a bitch, the nights she spent curled up on the other side of the bed alone, and all the times where she wouldn't even dare to listen to his bullshit of an apology.

And now this? How was she supposed to explain and tell everything that happened after she left without feeling guilty?

"Rog," she spoke, emerging from the hallway dressed in running shorts, a shirt and sneakers, "I'm going for a run." At this point, there was no way Rosie was going to give a proper explanation to him. So she decided to go out for a run—a habit she developed in her late teens after getting tired of hearing the same half-assed apology from her half-sober mother for being an alcoholic.

Truth is, she should have listened to her mother. Because some times, the worst apologies are the ones that work.

Roger looked at her, his hands stirring whatever he was making for dinner. "Okay."

After eight whole years of being with Rosie, he knew that there was something bothering her. Roger wished he could understand what it was, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

He doesn't understand Rosie.

Everything she's done—moving with him to London and going through every tough spot in her life alongside Roger only to end up on the brink of a breakup. It's so fucking absurd and strange, he doesn't quite thinking much at all.

There are times where she has the biggest smile on Earth and the next, she is numb and afraid to feel.

Roger sighed. Today, he really wanted to get back on track.

He now has thirteen days left.

But it just so happened that Rosie decided to go for a run when he was so close to finishing their meal for dinner. Fettuccine alfredo. He can't even cook all that well, but he tried because he just wanted a good meal with her.

Unfortunately, the world isn't fair, and Roger would have to wait a while until Rosie gets back from her run to actually eat dinner. And to be pretty honest with you right now, he felt like crying right now because he was so frustrated with this.

You know, he knows he shouldn't have gone out with the boys and completely ignore the exist of Rosie for the longest time, and he shouldn't have gone on with the constant argument just to prove his point. Right now, all he can ever ask for is for Rosie to stay.

It would be about an hour and a half or so until the front door opened and out came Rosie, face red and breathing heavily as she headed towards the couch and plopped herself on the cushions.

Almost immediately, Roger came over to check on her (usually, she's never this tired on a run). "Rosie, ljubav—" He sat beside her and ran his fingers through her hair. "Are you okay?"

"I ran..." breathe, "five," breathe, "fucking," breathe, "miles."

"That's... the most you've done in forever, babe—" He helped her sit up on the couch, letting her slouch back on the cushions. Her cheeks were red and her ponytail was a complete mess.

Usually, Rosie only ran one or two miles because it didn't take too long to complete. She was a fast runner (thanks to her days playing football in Croatia), but running five miles straight out of nowhere? She must be fucking insane.

"I made dinner. Fettuccine alfredo, and I didn't set the kitchen on fire," Roger tells her, proud of himself. "This time, I actually bothered to look online for a recipe."

Rosie chucked a little. "I thought you said that you'd never cook pasta ever again after what happened."

Turns out, Roger isn't much of a great cook as he thought he was. He almost set the countertop on fire but set the fire alarm off. "I thought I would give it another try. And besides, you seem to like my French toast. Admit it—it's better than that flimsy café down the street. I make it with love from my big, fat heart."

"You practically own my heart, Rog." She smiled at the sight of Roger laughing, his hand reaching over in an attempt to intertwine their fingers together. Instead, she does it herself, and his heart flutters. "I really need to take a shower, but I'm too sore from the run."

"Twenty-eight is really doing some things to you, huh?"

"Um—says the man who is thirty!"

Roger laughed and ruffled her hair. It felt a little better knowing that the silence between them was no longer there, more like a relief. He knew this was going to go back to their old ways soon, so the Brit thought of nothing else but to cherish this moment.

"Rog, are—" Rosie spoke, her voice shaky and unsteady. "Are you mad about what happened in Santorini? I mean, I really appreciate that you went through all the trouble to book the tickets and hotel a week before, but I really shouldn't have left you during dinner that night. I was just really upset and not thinking the right way and—"

"It's fine, Rosie."

"Okay, but I just really feel bad for leaving you and not giving a single word to you that night and practically almost giving you a heart attack when I didn't come to the room. You deserved much more than that." She really did regret their last night in Santorini. She was an asshole, but then again, he was also an asshole. And together, they were possibly the only asshole couple in all of England.

But she had no clear reason to leave him at the restaurant and not come back for the night.

Nevertheless, Roger only smiled at her and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "I don't need an apology to know that you're sorry. I think we were both at fault for that night..."

It felt so much better knowing that Roger wasn't angry at her, but she still felt a bit of guilt pooling at the bottom of her stomach.

There was clearly something bothering Rosie, and it had been bothering her for a long time. And Roger wished he could figure it out, but he couldn't. He doesn't understand her or the way she thinks or anything about her.

"Why don't we go and eat dinner now? The pasta should still be warm by now."

She stood from the couch and started to head to the hallway. "I would, but I really need a shower. Care to join?"

It's been a while since Rosie has said something like that.

His eyebrows immediately raised. "Are you serious?"

The answer is always yes.

At least, for the time being.