"Well, well, well... look what the cat dragged in."

Freddie elongates each syllable, his voice a mixture of surprise and disdain. For hours, I've been readying myself to explain everything to Roger. My carefully-crafted spiel runs through my head on repeat, ready to spill out.

What I hadn't counted on, however, was having to go through Freddie first.

I shift uncomfortably, refusing to make eye contact. Instead, I watch the restless tapping of his foot against the frame of the faded green door. Freddie clears his throat, shifts his weight to the other foot, and I wonder what Roger has told him about the fiasco in the pub.

The silence continues to intensify, becoming even more awkward until, finally, I feel brave enough to look up. Freddie's wiry frame is blocking the door, his dark hair much more curly and unkempt than I've ever seen it. His eyes are narrowed, but his mouth is slightly turned up as if he's in on a joke that only he knows about.

"Don't look so serious, darling," Freddie rolls his eyes good-naturedly and relaxes his stance. "Everyone knows that my bark is much worse than my bite."

He pauses to give me a studious once-over, perhaps determining if I'm to be further trusted with his best friend's heart. Freddie has been our biggest champion from the get-go, even before we knew that we needed one, and I can't help but feel as if I've let him down.

"C-could I come in? I ask softly. With his dark eyes trained on me, he crosses his arms across his chest as if considering the options. After a long moment, he sighs and runs a hand through his unruly hair.

"Did you really just walk away from him?" he asks.

"It wasn't like that," I reply defensively. I mean, really, how was I supposed to know that Roger would a) show up out of the blue and b) tell me that he loved me? If anything, what he had said in that stupid interview had made me think that that level of commitment would be impossible between us.

Freddie continues to glare at me as he once again shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I silently debate calling Roger's name, or perhaps just tackling Freddie. He's taller than me, but he's on the thin side, so maybe I could take him.

As I'm debating the aerodynamics of breaking-and-entering, Freddie exhales and deftly moves to the side. He motions me in with a dramatic gesture and shuts the door behind us as I make my way to the stairwell.

"There's just one problem, darling," he says quietly, putting an arm out to stop me. "I don't think Rog is here."

"Not-- not here?" I ask, confused. Because if he's not here, then where is he?

"He was here," Freddie replies, examining his long fingers and flicking off a speck of black nail polish from one hand. "He was definitely here last night, I can promise you that. But, I'm fairly certain that if you..."

I don't hear the rest of the sentence as I sprint up the stairs towards Roger's bedroom. Without hesitation, I barge through the half-open door, ready to throw myself into his arms to make everything right again.

But, just as Freddie predicted, my boyfriend isn't here.

My ragged breath echoes through the empty room as I stand just inside the doorway, taking in the perfectly-made bed. It's one of Roger's idiosyncrasies: no matter how late, or hungover, he is, he always takes the time to make the bed. He does so with military precision, making me wonder how his mother is a genius or a tyrant.

"Rog?" Freddie's voice echoes through the large house before becoming increasingly muffled as he walks outside. "Roooooooger?" A rooster crows as I stand by the window, watching the singer stride into the barn-like building next door. A minute later, he reappears and spots me in the window.

"No luck," he calls up, giving me an exaggerated shrug. "I'll go see if..." his voice trails off as he strides towards the large field where a few cars are parked, his platform clogs making deep grooves in the soft dirt.

With a sigh, I walk over to Roger's bed and sit on the corner. Burying my head in my hands, I exhale loudly and feel my entire body slump further into the mattress. God, what a beautiful mess we've made, Roger and I. Even when we try, we can't seem to get out of our own way.

Hearing footsteps approach, I look up eagerly, hoping to see my boyfriend. Instead, John plods past the bedroom, clad in well-worn striped pajamas and a halo of frizzy hair. He's almost past the door when he pauses and slowly takes two steps back until he's framed by the doorway.

"Hey," I say quietly as he looks at me quizzically, still half asleep and wholly hungover.

"Hi," he says, looking around the room as if in search of his bandmate. "Have you been here the whole time?"

"What?"

"What?"

"You go first," we both say simultaneously.

John starts to say something but ends up stammering nonsensically, so great is his confusion.

"I just got here," I clarify, chuckling softly despite my current mood. "Just a few minutes ago."

"Ah," he says, once again looking around the room. "Where's Rog?"

"That's what I was going to ask you," I reply.

"Isn't he here?" John looks around the room, suspiciously as if Roger will jump out to surprise him. "Well, he was most assuredly here--"

"Last night, I know," I respond gloomily as I lightly kick the edge of the faded paisley rug on the floor. In the distance, I hear the phone ring and the clatter of Freddie's feet running up the stairs. John stands in the doorway, looking generally befuddled as to what's going on. As the phone continues to ring, he perks up and leans his head out the door.

"Fred, if that's Brian, tell him he needs to re-work the bridge on 'Brighton Rock,'" he calls out.

"Tell him yourself, I'm not getting in the middle of it," Freddie calls back as he reaches for the receiver. John turns back to me and starts to say something, but is interrupted by Freddie's guffaw from the hallway.

"You're joking, right?" Freddie says into the receiver. He pauses and lets out another cackle. "Good fucking Lord, I couldn't make up this shit if I tried."

A pause and another chortle before his heavy footsteps pad closer to the doorway.

"It's for you." He looks at me with mock seriousness, the corners of his mouth threatening to turn gleefully upwards.

"Me?" I ask, surprised. "But I--"

"Skylar," he interrupts. "The only thing that I ask is that I'm allowed to be Roger's best man at the wedding. That's it. That's all I ask."

"The-- the wedding? What?"

Freddie winks mischievously and motions me towards the phone in the hallway. With a furrowed brow, I stroll over and hesitantly pick up the receiver.

"H-hello?"

"Skylar?" Roger's voice echoes into my ear, and I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Roger?"

The line is silent for a moment. "Hello? Rog, are you--"

"I'm here," he says. In the background, I hear a woman speaking in the distance, and my hackles immediately rise. Had he just run off and found a floozy for the night? Jesus Christ, what is wrong with this man? First the fucking interview, and now--

Wait. Is that... is that my roommate? Is that Jenny?

"Rog, where are you?"

He lets out a sigh that's barely audible, and I can imagine him running his hand through his long hair.

"I'm at your flat."

"My flat? In London?"

"Do you have another flat that I unaware of?"

"Why-- why are you at my flat?"

"I went to find you." He says those five words as if they're the most obvious thing in the world, and my heart melts a little.

"But I came here to find you." My words echo through the phone and Roger exhales softly. I look back towards his bedroom, where Freddie and John are not-so-subtly listening in. Leaning tiredly against the wall, I slide down until I'm seated on the floor, tucking the receiver between my cheek and my shoulder.

Neither of us says anything for a long while, until, finally, Roger breaks the silence.

"You just walked away." His voice is subdued and defeated. "I told you that I loved you, and you froze and then fucking walked away."

"It wasn't like that," I counter softly. "I know it looked like that, but... It wasn't like that."

"Oh, really? What was it like?"

I sit with my feelings for a moment until I'm ready to respond. My words are quiet, so soft that I don't know if he'll be able to hear me.

"Roger... the last time someone told me that they loved me, they-- it destroyed me, Rog. I've barely just managed to put myself back together."

"I'm not him, Skylar." His voice comes through the phone strong and defiant, and it makes me want to cry.

"I know you're not," I reply, wishing that we were together in the same room so that I could pull him against me.

Neither of us says anything for a long while.

"I love you, Skylar," he says suddenly. "Even though you're always late, and it drives me absolutely mad that you never make your fucking bed--you're a doctor, Sky—and, for the record, I think it's truly ridiculous that you refuse to eat courgettes. But, despite all that, I love you. I love you. And if saying that or feeling that ruins everything, then so be it. But I don't take it back, not one goddamn word of it. And if you want to end this thing between us because it's too much, then that's on you. But at least you know how I feel."

Roger goes silent, the only noise on the line is his unsteady breath. Closing my eyes, I let his words wash over me, and it's all I can do not to cry. I feel broken and damaged, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is the person who can make me whole again... if only I'll let him.

"Sky? Are you there?"

"I'm here," I reply softly, truly worried that I'm going to erupt in tears. I've been holding in so many emotions, spending a year squashing them deep inside so that I can survive... and now they're dangerously close to the surface.

"Well, then say something. Anything. Jesus.

"Roger, of course, I fucking love you." The words tumble out of my mouth, surprising me.

Silence, and then a long, ragged inhale.

"You do?"

"Yes." The doubt is gone from my mind, my tone emphatic. "Of course I do."

In the background, I hear the distinct sounds of Freddie cheering quietly, and John shushing him. I roll my eyes, and a smile plays on my lips.

"I love you, Roger," I repeat softly. Finally, after a long pause, he responds, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Say it again."

"John and Freddie are listening," I whisper, a smile firmly planted on my face.

"Those nosy buggers, I'm going to--"

"I love you, Roger Taylor," I shout. The moment is so cathartic that I burst into laughter as I hear applause and chuckles from the next room over.

"Wonderful job, darling," Freddie calls out. "Now you just need a proper shag to seal the—"

Freddie's next few words are muffled as John hauls him out into the hall and towards another set of doors down the hall.

"Sorry, Skylar," John mutters as they pass, unsuccessfully trying to hide the grin on his face. "Sorry, Rog!" he calls more loudly as he pushes Freddie into a bedroom and shuts the door to muffle the singer's laughter.

Roger grumbles an obscenity, and I can practically envision him on the other end of the line, eyes closed and wearily massaging his temple. The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I begin once again to laugh, this time with Roger joining in. We howl with laughter until my sides hurt; each time one of us manages to control it, the other can't hold in the laughter, and we're once again in stitches.

Finally, I manage to calm myself enough to get the words out.

"Hey, Roger?"

"Hey, Skylar?"

"How fast can you get here?"