Roses in December

Four

John wants to forget. Wants to forget just as Roger has forgotten his him. But he couldn't. He had shared the last seven years with this dense of a man. He had shared the last seven years becoming an accidental rockstar. It wasn't like Deacy to give up on anything. Yet here he was, spending day after day questioning why he was still there, sharing a space with a man who didn't even much of anything other than being the band's bassist and his housemate.

It took him days to try and wipe away the sight of Roger speaking to a woman. It was foolish of Deacy to be hurt. The drummer didn't understand where John's pain was coming from, therefore had no idea that the simple act of harmlessly flirting with a member of the opposite sex caused so much distress. He could barely look Roger in the eye during his days of jealous recovery. Roger, of course, had no idea and probably figured that John did not score at the party as he might've hoped.

Who knows. Roger's mind went blank on some of the happiest moments he had shared with the brunet, yet he was as sharp as a tack when it came to flirting; flashing his wicked smile and convincing a sweet little lady to spend the night and utter his name as one did to the Father at Sunday mass.

Just as John's bout of jealous had subsided, he was called to the studio by the request of Freddie and Brian. Brian did not give him much information on the telephone. Just that he needed to leave Roger at home and that this conversation was long overdue. John had some inkling of what this was all about but he chose not to ask Brian on the phone or even be the first one to speak when the three men sat at least.

Brian was rubbing his hands nervously on the top of his lap. Freddie immediately pulled out a cigarette and lit it when he took his seat. John was not surprised when Brian was the first to speak.

"Freddie and I had a long chat the other night...after you and Roger left the party. And we..umm..." Brian raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes wincing as if far too difficult to utter the next sentence. "We think it's best to put the next album on hiatus."

John does not respond immediately. The silence in the room is painful, but Freddie, noticing that John is still taking it all in, decides to speak, "It won't be forever, Deacy. We just don't think it's fair for Roger...for you. Even for us, to be at this when it's like we are simply whacking our instruments at a brick wall."

As mentioned, John doesn't give up on anything. Yes, he might have a bit of an attack in the midst of whatever he set his mind to, but he was not a quitter. He would be damned if he gave up on this band...if he gave on Roger, who truly needed him. Needed all of them, he knew that much, to recover from his memory loss.

But no, this was not good. This was not happening. John has already lost his love and now, the only other thing that was keeping him here, the band and their music, was also being lost. God knows if the band takes a hiatus if they would ever return. If Roger's memory would ever return.

"Give me a week." He decided firmly, finally speaking. "Give me a week to jog his memory back." His eyes darted up to meet with the two men he could so warmly call his best friends, yet, at this moment, their eyes...their faces looked so draining...so filled with an emotion that John knew all too well - the emotion that he knew oh so very well in his youth — doubt.

Freddie stood from his spot, cigarette already finished and discarded. To set ablaze a light and discard it so quickly in the system meant a desperate relief from stress. Freddie did not show such signs of such stress, aside from his doubtful eyes and discarded cigarette. "What Deacy? Do you think you can repair his memory in only seven days? Are you mad?"

"We need to try something...anything. Look! The doctors haven't worked and throwing him back into practicing didn't was a complete waste. It may not work, but isn't it worth a try? I can't go on like this..." John's eyes darted to the floor, a hand coming across his chest to rub on the spot that gave him, like Freddie's cigarette, some relief. "Maybe in the country...we could go back to the farmhouse rather than the studio...anywhere but here...it's not working."