Savor
I am working on a sequel for my last story, but to tide you over in the meantime, here is a set of old!Poger drabbles.
Title: Savor
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete/Roger
Time Period: Present day
Warnings: None, really. One bad word?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Obviously. And I still have to go to my day job because I don’t make any money doing this.
Summary: A collection of almost drabbles. Pete has learned not to overindulge.
I watch him on stage. He stands to my right and a little forward, that achingly familiar place. I don’t need to watch him anymore to know what he is doing but I find myself mesmerized, unable to look away.
The line of his jaw is no longer as tight and hard as it once was. The glasses soften what used to be a deeply penetrating gaze. His movement on stage is iconic but now merely a pantomime of youthful frustration. The tightly wound spring that once drove him has loosened. An antique store Adonis fallen on hard times.
It surprises me that he is beautiful. But then, it always did.
* * *
He comes to the dimly lit hotel room, high off the performance and slightly drunk. I wonder out loud, yet again, what kind of reformed alcoholic still drinks.
He pushes against me, his breath hot on my cheek, “You were wonderful out there.”
His compliment catches me off guard, like they always do. I open my mouth to tell him to go to bed and he catches it with his own, insistently passionate. For a moment I let myself surrender, unwilling to admit what I’ve known all along, that his promises are fickle and his moods as mercurial as the wind.
* * *
I moan into his mouth and something slams closed in his eyes as he straightens. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean that. I think perhaps I am a little drunk after all.” I turn away, pressing my hand against my mouth hard enough to leave the indented pattern of my teeth.
“Sure, whatever, Pete,” I manage to say.
“You know, Daltrey, that’s what I like best about you,” he says as he turns to go. “How you can just let things drop.”
I watch the door after he has quietly closed it. “Yeah, that’s me. Just a fucking bundle of maturity.”
* * *
I wander the streets aimlessly after I leave him, slightly thrilled as I pass unrecognized. I think of the man behind me, the man who is something more than a brother to me. The other half of my fractured soul.
I do not need to indulge in him gluttonously. A carefully measured taste from time to time is all I permit myself.
I tell myself this is how I test my self-discipline. With precisely poured brandy and stolen touches and no one to tell me how close I am to the edge but those reproachful blue eyes that haunt my dreams.