Chapter Text
Neither of them could remember later who'd made the first move. They'd been reclining on John's bed, lazily smoking cigarette after cigarette and sharing a half-bottle of vodka John had unearthed from a box of electrical bits and bobs. It's cheap, he'd said with an apologetic shrug, and probably shite. It was awful, tasting more like some kind of paint thinner than proper vodka, but it was all they could find in the flat. Neither of them cared. Each sip had only heightened the electricity that had been building between them for some time – building up for months, really -- until the vodka was all gone, the empty bottle dropping forgotten to the floor as their lips met.
They'd kissed before, of course, though not often and not for long. There'd been a few celebratory post-gig kisses, where Roger had been too exuberant for words, shoving John up against a wall, telling him how fabulously the bassist had played, before pressing his lips to John's. Another time, John had planted small, loving kisses along Roger's hairline while he tried to sleep off a hangover. And of course, they couldn't resist the deep kiss that Freddie had dared them to do two weeks before, when the power had gone out during a storm, thankfully putting an end to his idea of Strip Scrabble. (“It's not a thing, Fred,” John had tried to explain. “It bloody should be!” Freddie had shot back. And, as if on cue, there was an enormous crack of thunder from the storm raging outside, and the flat had been plunged into sudden darkness. “Truth or Dare?” John had offered as Freddie grumbled something about them having no sense of adventure.)
But this – this was so much better.
It was as if time had stopped for them both – though in reality it had only been about twenty minutes -- as if nothing else existed, or even could exist, except entwined limbs and soft, breathless moans and frantic, open-mouthed kisses. The breathy keening from Roger's lips as he thrust against John were noises made of sin itself. John didn't think he'd ever been harder in his life, and every kiss, every moan, every thrust of their hips felt like electrical jolts going straight to his cock. God, John thought, if it was like this with their clothes still on –
And then Roger froze, his hands tightening suddenly, painfully, on John's hips.
“Second thoughts?” John murmured into the other man's ear. He wasn't that surprised, if he was being honest. The tension between them had been building up for ages, yet this rough and fully clothed frottage was still the furthest they'd dare to go. “It's okay, y'know,” he said hesitantly, “if you want to, um, stop.” Not that John wanted to stop; god, no, anything but that. From the first ardent kiss that Roger had given him after a particularly intense gig, all John had wanted was more. More kisses, more touches, simply more Roger. And even though John loved women, there was something about Roger that was intoxicating, addicting, and John had gone to his bed that night alone but painfully hard, Roger's name spilling desperately from his lips as he'd frantically brought himself off.
Actually, John realised, never stopping was really more what he wanted, what he'd hoped Roger would have wanted as well.
Roger shook his head, swiftly ducking his head down to bury his face into John's shoulder. “Nn-oo,” he stuttered. “I. Well. I just...” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
John's eyes widened as it hit him. Oh. Oh. Belatedly he realised that Roger was no longer hard and grinding against his thigh. He was sure that, if he looked, there would be a damp patch on the front of Roger's trousers – a damp patch for which he, John Richard Deacon, was probably responsible. He was suddenly grateful that Roger couldn't see the self-satisfied smirk that rose unbidden to his lips.
“Um,” John began cautiously, feeling rather like he ought to say something. “It happens, sometimes. It just happens --”
“Not to me!” Roger burst out, rearing his head back up so John could see the frustration in those impossibly blue eyes. “I've never... I just... That doesn't happen to me!”
“Ok,” John grinned. “But clearly it has happened at least once now.” He reached up and threaded long fingers into the blond's hair, pulling him down for a gentle kiss.
“This,” Roger seethed against John's lips. “Is. Not. Funny. Not a bit!”
John valiantly tried to stop the giggles that threatened to bubble out of him. “Ok, no,” he agreed. “You're right. It's not funny.”
Except... it kind of was. While it wasn't particularly amusing that Roger had finished before they'd really gotten properly started (you did that, John's mind supplied smugly, you made that happen), the outrage and disbelief on Roger's face reminded John of nothing so much as an angry kitten.
A soft, fluffy, blond, outraged kitten.
He couldn't stop the giggles this time.
“Thanks a lot, Deacy,” Roger grumbled, struggling fruitlessly to extricate himself from John's grip. “Thanks for the support, mate. Really. Thanks.”
“I'm sorry!” John gasped, hands flying up to cover his mouth in a failed attempt to contain his laughter. “It's just--”
Roger finally managed to free himself from the tangle of their limbs, swinging his legs over the edge of the sagging double bed as he sat up, facing away from John, who was still giggling helplessly. He reached for the cigarette pack on the nightstand.
Of course it was empty. Of fucking course.
Roger pushed himself off the bed, utterly fed up, and suddenly, irrationally furious over the whole sodding afternoon. “Going out,” he muttered. “You smoked the last fucking fag.” Which wasn't fair to say to John, he knew, because although earlier they'd both been smoking like proverbial chimneys, he also knew that in all likelihood he'd smoked the last one himself. He strode toward the bedroom door, but in a heartbeat John had leapt off the bed and across the room, blocking Roger's exit.
“John --”
“Don't go,” John said. He cupped one hand along Roger's jaw, the tips of his long fingers tangling lightly into the other man's hair. “I'm sorry I laughed. I wasn't laughing at... well, you know.”
Roger huffed, refusing to be placated. He was sticky, and uncomfortable, and uncharacteristically self-conscious.
John reached out with his free arm, drawing the other man in close. Nose to nose they stood, grayish-green eyes staring lovingly into blue. It's funny, John thought, how everyone seemed to think Roger was so much smaller than he was, when the pair of them were nearly alike in height. Yet there was a delicacy, somehow, to Roger, that made him seem smaller than he actually was, whereas John's legs, especially given his penchant for platforms, made his legs seem to stretch on forever. (He'd never admit he wore the platforms because they changed his centre of gravity ever so slightly, giving a nice lift to his bum – a view he knew Roger certainly appreciated, especially from behind his drum kit.)
“I am sorry,” John repeated, and meant it.
Roger broke their locked gaze first, dropping his eyes to John's shirt, rumpled and untucked, but still mostly buttoned up. There was a button missing, Roger realised. Probably broke off while we were rutting around on the bed, he thought. Absently he allowed John to pull him in closer. God, John smelled good. John almost always smelled good, he thought, and now was no exception -- mostly soap, and a little sweaty from earlier, but just... just John. Without realising it, Roger's arms had crept up around John's back, holding him tight. The awful feeling of humiliation was beginning to ebb away as he allowed John to cradle him close, and Roger knew that no one need ever know about this ... incident ... except him and John, and John would be far too polite to ever mention it again.
It was one of the things Roger loved best about the bassist, that they could spend an afternoon like this, and John would never kiss and tell. And while he was almost certain that neither Brian nor Freddie would care about this fledgling ... thing, whatever it was ... between him and John, Roger wasn't exactly eager to tell them either. Honestly, he thought with an inward chuckle, Brian would likely just lecture them about safe sex and getting enough sleep, and Freddie would just want all the sordid details. Perhaps not quite all the details, his still-embarrassed mind hastily amended.
“I'll make it up to you,” John whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Roger's temple. “You just see if I don't.”
It could be worse, Roger thought lazily, as John kept pressing small kisses into his hair. Fred would have probably written a song about my little... misfire. John never would.
Roger smiled finally, pulling John even tighter to him. “I'll hold you to that,” he whispered back, tilting his chin up slightly to kiss John properly. “I will.”