30 reasons why - Roger Taylor

-REASON NINETEEN-

 June 25th, 1979.

Roger woke up with an excruciating headache. Pounding was the word, and he was so done with the day before it even started.

When he woke up, it was noon, the latest he's ever woken up. He sighed at the time, and sat up in bed only to find that Rosie wasn't there. At first, he was confused because she was always sleeping in bed with him whether it be a bad day or a good day.

Then it hit him.

He remembered the events of last night so vividly. The drinking, Brian driving him home and stumbling into the house like a drunkard.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Roger surely was a dumb and stupid man as a result of his recklessness at the bar, but he couldn't stop thinking about Rosie. Where was she now? Was she okay? Did I do anything to her last night? He knew she must have felt terrified or angry or everything all at once, but she couldn't have left.

Regret sat at the bottom of his stomach as he stared at the blanket covering his body. He pushed it off and got out of bed, wincing as his headache pulsed and grew tense.

He made his way to the kitchen, hand scratching his head as looked for his girlfriend. "Rosie?" he called. "Rosie!"

To his left, he found her curled up on the couch, a blanket barely covering her body as she drifted in and out of sleep. She was awake, hands pinching the bridge of her nose as she pointlessly stared at the ceiling. The very moment Roger saw her, he knew he had fucked up bad last night.

He rushed over to her, despite the raging headache, and kneeled down to her. "Rosie..."

"You're awake," she whispered, turning over to face the Brit, her hand caressing his cheek. "Do you feel okay? Do you need water? Breakfast?"

Roger didn't answer, only running his fingers through her hair. He felt so guilty of what he did last night, he felt that it should be him doing all the work rather than Rosie. "Just a headache, ljubav. What about you? Are you—"

"I'm fine." She pushed the blanket off her body and got up from the couch.

Oh, so it was one of those mornings. The one where they wake up and it's an awkward morning after something like an argument the night before. It was quite familiar to Roger, but he really wasn't up for what was heading up for him.

Rosie went into the kitchen and looked inside the refrigerator, the first time since March that she's even bothered to find something for breakfast. Usually, she skipped the first meal when things were shaky between them.

Roger stood awkwardly by the counter. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"It was fine."

He sighed. "Look, I'm really sorry for last night. I didn't mean to come home drunk—I guess I was just too stressed out about us and—"

"Roger, I don't need your half-assed apology right now," she told him. "I—Just leave me alone."

This was what he was so tired of. "It wasn't my intention to go and get drunk, Rosie. I just wanted to have a good time with the boys, but I guess I just got carried away."

"Oh—you guess?" Rosie scoffed, shutting the refrigerator door and leaning against it as Roger came in front of her. "This is like, what? The fourth time you've come back drunk, and honestly, I'm pretty fucking sick of it."

"We've been dating for eight years! Four times isn't a lot."

"Whatever." She brushed his shoulder as she past by him to head to the hallway. "You clearly don't understand what kind of effect seeing you drunk has on—"