Galileo
Galileo
Galileo Figaro
Magnificoooooooooooo

I'm sitting in a telephone box, the receiver jammed between my ear and my shoulder as I listen to Roger and Freddie's taped voices.

"So, what do you think?" Roger asks eagerly as soon as the singing stops. "Do you like it?"

"I-- Well... The thing is... I'm not sure what it is exactly--"

"Oh, this is just a demo. It'll sound much more polished in the studio. Plus, Brian has to do his takes, and we'll mix it all together." Roger's tone is matter-of-fact as if having more overdubs will make the track less confusing.

There's a muffled thud as the phone is passed from one member of Queen to another.

"Darling, what's not to love?" Freddie's voice echoes through the receiver.

"Hey, Freddie," I reply with a grin.

"Don't 'hey Freddie' me," he responds good-naturedly. "Please don't tell me that you're going to be like all the others and say that the song doesn't make sense."

I pause, because, in all honesty, the bits and pieces that I've heard telephonically ever since the boys left for rehearsal in Surrey don't make any sense.

"All the others?" I ask innocently. 

"You know, all the others: Mary, Chrissie--"

"She's dodging the question, Fred," Roger says in the background. "You'll never get a straight answer now."

"Fucking hell, fine, you'll have to listen to the whole thing properly in person," Freddie grumbles. "By the way, Rog here is very excited for your visit, in fact, just this morning, he said--"

Another round of rustling as, I presume, the receiver is wrestled away from Freddie. I chuckle while I wait for my boyfriend to come back on the line.

"So I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Roger's trying to play it cool, even though we're both dying to see each other. It's only been three weeks, but it feels like three months. We've been separated for much longer, and it's usually fine. I throw myself into my work, he focuses on the band, and we're reunited at the end. But, this time around, he'd been in London for a solid two months and, I suppose we'd gotten used to seeing each other almost every day.

"I can't wait," I reply with a smile on my face. Roger starts to speak, but my attention is diverted to a fellow doctor rapping lightly on the telephone box's glass door.

"They're ready, Skylar," he says. I nod and grasp the receiver with my left hand.

"Rog? I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

**

Twenty-six hours later, Roger and I are sitting on a threadbare blanket in a field that's a 20-minute walk from Ridge Farm Studio.

It's the first time that we've been alone since I arrived, as I was treated to a command performance of Freddie's song the moment I stepped out of the car. It was still choppy in parts and missing a few lyrics. Despite his promises that it would make sense once they got into the studio, I still couldn't sort out how all the bits would fit together.

Next to me, Roger unpacks the meager picnic dinner that we managed to scrounge up: a dense loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of wine. He begins to attack the wine cork, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I've missed you, Rog," I say, reaching over to still his hand. He looks up, his expression softening.

"Me too," he says, his voice even hoarser than usual due to weeks of 12-hour rehearsals. "I know we can't talk every day, but I think about you all the time."

I look at him dubiously with a grin.

"What? I do!" he insists.

"You're too wrapped up in your music to think about anything or anyone else," I reply. "But that's how it should be. I get it. That's how I am at work."

"Has it gotten any better?" he asks, finally removing the pesky cork from the bottle with a triumphant aha!

Instead of answering, I shrug non-committedly and reach into the bag for two mismatched wine glasses that we pilfered from the kitchen.

"Not the shrug," Roger says with a grin, lightly poking my ribcage. I smile back at him, passing him a glass to fill.

Everything had changed in Japan. Queen's tour there had been wildly successful and wholly unexpected. I suspect that the entire trip, they'd all wondered if it was a fluke. However, when we arrived back in London, there were heaps of people waiting. It wasn't the frenetic, ecstatic energy of Tokyo, but it wasn't far off. And, to add to the surprise, Roger and I learned that the pictures of us--and details about our relationship--had been publicized in the UK press during our week abroad.

In the privacy of our hotel room in Tokyo, cocooned by high thread count sheets and naivety, Rog and I had decided that it wasn't a big deal if my name was out there. After all, it's not as if Queen was hounded by the media non-stop. And no one bothered Mary, Ronnie, or Chrissie.

But that all changed.

"Sky? Has it gotten any better?" Roger repeated the question, his tone letting me know that he wouldn't let me dodge this time.

"Yeah, it's better," I reply lightly, only half-lying. 

"Yesterday, a girl came in with a raging case of tonsillitis," I add. "Her tonsils were enormous, there's no way she wasn't in a great deal of pain.

"I was listening to her lungs when she looked over to see if her mum was watching. Then she motioned for me to come closer. 'What's he really like?' she whispered. Obviously, I'd been expecting, you know, a medical question, so it took me a moment to figure out what she was referring to. 'Who?' I asked. 'Roger Taylor,' she replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world."

Roger lets out a breathy laugh. "So this girl is sick as a dog, and that's what she wants to know? About me?" He sounds disbelieving, reminding me that the boys still haven't gotten used to the fact that they're becoming very well-known in certain corners of the universe.

I nod.

"So what'd you say? I hope you told her that I was good in the sack." He winks and flashes a cocky smile.

"Her mum came back over before I had to answer," I reply, lightly pushing his shoulder. 

Little do we know that in a few months, a friend of a friend will ask me the same question at a birthday party. "He's exactly how you imagine he'd be," I'll reply, mostly just wanting to end the conversation. It will occur too late that she, unlike the young girl at the hospital, is genuinely wondering how Roger is in bed. A week later, an item will appear in the gossip columns, alluding to how I've confirmed that Queen's drummer is a stallion in bed.

But that's all in the future. 

Tonight, Roger and I munch happily on our food, quickly finishing off the bottle of wine. I lay back on the blanket, stretching my arms out above my head. The sun has set, and the first stars have appeared in the sky. I marvel how much brighter they are out here versus in London.

Roger finishes tidying up the remnants of our dinner and pulls out a half-melted candle that we found in a cupboard. He rummages around in his pocket for a lighter, which he uses to light the candle and then a cigarette. He lays down next to me, and I hear him exhale, followed by a plume of smoke rising in the air.

"Those things will kill you, you know," I say lightly. We've been through this a million times, and I've given up trying to convince him otherwise. Roger looks over and winks, before turning his face back to the sky.

We lay like this for a long while, the world steadily turning shades of darker blue.

"Skylar--"

I turn my head to look over at Roger. His face is still looking upwards, and he clenches his jaw lightly as he debates what to say.

"Sky, when we're back in London--"

He stops again, still not looking at me. I turn onto my side to face him.

Roger takes a deep breath and, after a moment or two, turns to face me. Suddenly I realize that he's about to ask something big, and I feel a flutter of panic in my chest.

"When we're back in London, would you like to move in together? You know, find a flat of our own. My lease is done next month, and with Jenny moving back to Dorchester..."

Roger continues to talk, but the words sound muffled as if we're both underwater. Suddenly I realize that all the times that he's brought up this very subject--jokingly, I thought--he's been testing the waters. 

"Don't worry, we can order takeaway for every meal since we're both shit at cooking," he continues, his words filtering back to me.

"Hey! A few weeks ago, I roasted a chicken!" I protest indignantly.

"You burned a chicken," he replies with a smirk. "Even Mary wouldn't touch it, and she's the most polite person we know."

I laugh because he's right, the chicken had been fucking terrible. There had been a few polite attempts to poke it around the plate as if that would trick me into thinking that people thought it was edible. But, in the end, we all piled into Roger's car to go for a curry.

"So, what do you think?" Roger looks at me intently, and I can tell that he's been worried about asking. My heart breaks a little for him, a feeling that I get every so often when his veneer of cool fades momentarily, and I can see the earnestness hiding just beneath.

But I can't give him the answer that he wants. Not now, not tonight. It's not that I don't want to live with him. We practically live together already when he's in London. One of my favorite parts of those days is when I come home from the hospital, and he's lying in my bed, shirtless with a music magazine in hand. "Hey you," he says, opening his arms for a cuddle.

So it's not that I'm against the idea, but something stops me from saying yes. Maybe it's what happened with Luke. Perhaps it's what happened with my mom and dad. I don't know.

"Sky?" Roger prompts, and I can see the earnestness start to fade away to be replaced by a very careful veneer of whatever-it's-fine, which he's had to cultivate, especially in the past few months.

"Rog," I say softly. "I do want that one day. But not right now."

He turns onto his back and looks up into the dark sky. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the candle. I remain on my side, watching his darkened profile as he reaches up to rub his collarbone through his half-buttoned shirt.

"Is it because we're not married?" His voice is quieter than before, his face still upturned. Before I can respond, he continues, even more softly.

"Because you know that I want to marry you one day."

I melt a little. Closing my eyes to let Roger's words sink in, I turn my face so that I'm looking at the night sky. Finally, I reply.

"No, that's not why. I just-- I just need to figure out who I am apart from you. Apart from all this. It's a lot sometimes."

We're both silent for a few moments, the flickering light from the candle illuminating us.

"I love you, Roger," I say, praying that he'll know how real those words are. I hear him rustling around, and, suddenly, his face is above mine. He peers into my eyes as if to discover the truth.

"I can see stars in your eyes, Sky," he says with a crooked smile on his face. After a moment, he leans down, and we kiss. I'm struck by the realization that, no matter how familiar our kisses become, there's always a sense of urgency beneath them.

As we part, he places a palm on my face. "Just let me know," he says quietly, and I know that he understands something that I don't even quite comprehend.

We segue into silly banter about the band, and he tells me about a song that he's been composing for the album.

"Do you want to write more songs?" 

Roger nods and looks over, a massive smile on his face. "I'm so glad you asked, Skylar."

I groan, knowing that I'm in for it. Roger can be verbose at times, especially when he's excited to explain something. He doesn't get as keyed up as Freddie, tripping over his words in earnest, but once Roger starts talking about a subject that he's passionate about, it's unlikely that he'll stop.

"Drummers just suffer from-- from a misrepresentation of image, if you will. Everything thinks that we're the stupid ones, you know? As if we're the least musically talented part of a rock band. It's a bit unfair, really. It's physically demanding, and, especially with this lot, it's a thankless task sometimes. But when you get behind the drums, when you pick up the drumsticks--

I don't know for how long he talks, but I close my eyes and let the words wash over me. Every now and then, I glance over to his profile and watch him take a drag from his cigarette.

Somewhere during all this, it hits me that I love this man with all my heart. I love him so much that it's almost painful. I've spent my entire life playing it safe, and, aside from my career, I haven't much to show for it. One could argue that it hasn't been a winning strategy. 

"And I'm getting more into the actual recording process, you know, all the knobs and dials--"

"Roger--" I interrupt him. "Let's do it."

"Do... what?"

"Let's find a flat together." My voice is quiet but firm. He's not Luke. He's not my dad.

I observe his face. What if he's changed his mind? But before my mind can go down the rabbit hole of self-doubt, Roger turns his head back towards the sky for a beat, and then back to me.

"Do you mean it?" His voice is low and raspy.

I nod, forgetting that he can't see me in the darkness.

"Yes," I say after a moment. "Yeah, let's do it."