He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 4

Heaving a sigh, the blonde smothered the cigarette into the step and tossed the beer bottle to the side. He picked himself up, brushed off the back of his jacket, and trudged up the steps, grabbing the doorknob and going to turn it—the knob staying in place. Roger's brows furrowed together in confusion, the drummer trying to open the door once more.

"Tim?" he called, unsuccessfully twisting the sedentary doorknob. "Tim!"

"I-I'll be right there!" the bassist stammered, his voice traveling from the back of the tenement.

Roger scoffed and turned his back to the door, hugging himself for warmth and wishing he'd kept the cigarette burning. His eyes flickered to the left, where he saw the bottle's neck sticking out of the snow, having landed perfectly in the soft, white blanket that covered most of London. His feet started to move towards the steps, only for the door to click open behind him and spin him back around.

"Sorry about that," Tim apologized, leaning against the threshold and running a hand through his hair. "'Had to clean up a bit." The blonde's gaze locked on the new gash that marked the bassist's cheek. He arched his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "What the hell are you looking at?" the brunette snapped.

"Where'd you get the cut?" Roger asked.

"I fell," Tim lied, pushing open the door more and waving the blonde in. The drummer crossed his arms, staring suspiciously at the fresh wound that had been poorly covered up with a single plaster. "Jesus Christ, Rog," the brunette scoffed. "You're 'bout to freeze out there. Get inside."

Without saying a word, and without losing sight of the scratch, the blonde dragged himself through the door—Tim closing it behind him and leaning against it. He watched as Roger wandered down the hall, taking in the building's foyer that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't often that Tim had people over, and with the shoddy state of the tenement, no one could blame him.

"Which one's yours, again?" Roger wondered aloud, examining the letter board that looked as though it hadn't been touched or updated in years. Several of the flats appeared unoccupied, and the ones whose numbers were accompanied by names were missing letters. The blonde couldn't make out a single tenant—not even Tim.

"Sorry, what?" the brunette muttered, shaking his head and snapping out of the daze he'd fallen into, his mind having drifted to a dark place.

"Which one do you live in?" He turned his head toward the bassist, who peeled himself away from the door and joined the drummer's side. Tim stared at the board like he had never seen it before, his eyes scanning the panel up and down before his finger jabbed 2D, where the letters read S A FE L.

"That one."

Roger clicked his tongue, flashing the brunette a meager grin. "'Should've known." An awkward silence fell over the pair as the blonde's gaze shifted back to the staircase. He couldn't deny the uneasy feeling that formed in the pit of his stomach, a heavy, foreboding presence surrounding him. He wondered if Tim noticed it, or if he'd been living there long enough that he'd just grown accustomed to it.

The time to ask had passed, though, with Tim abandoning his side and heading for the stairs. Roger blindly followed, trailing behind the brunette and into his flat, which kept in fashion with the rest of the tenement—dark, cold, and trashed. The blonde could hardly tell that his friend cleaned up, the spaces he created at the table, on the couch, and in the kitchen barely noticeable in the filth that consumed the place.

Tim carelessly tossed his jacket at the coat rack by the door and ventured into the kitchen, where dirty dishes piled high on the counters, all but for the stovetop. He grabbed a kettle from the mix—a plate and glass tumbling to the ground with a clatter but no breakage—and brought it over to the sink. When he turned on the faucet, it sputtered, the pipes creaking within the walls. Roger, watching intently, flinched as a forceful brown stream abruptly spewed from the faucet head, the color fading the longer it ran. Once it cleared, the brunette stuck the kettle underneath it and listened as the water filled it up.

"Your landlord still hasn't fixed that?" the blonde mumbled, briefly stealing his friend's gaze away from the teapot.

"He's been out of town," Tim lied, shutting off the water and returning the kettle to the stove. He whipped out a lighter and held the small flame to the burner, twisting the knob. A repetitive click echoed through the flat as the burner attempted to ignite, a faint gas smell permeating the air. Finally, the flame took to the igniter—a little too quickly for the brunette, who ripped his hand away and shook off the sudden stinging sensation.

Roger crossed his arms uncomfortably over his chest and offered, "You know, if you want, you could probably stay with me and Jo until your landlord comes back. You could sleep on the couch, and she's got clean water. Her mum actually just bought her this new electric kettle, and she's been dying to try it out."

"I'm good," the brunette passed, saying no more before escaping down the hallway to his bedroom.

The blonde heaved a frustrated sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, allowing his gaze to wander around the dimly lit room. He never had the chance to take a good look at the flat before, with Tim usually only having Brian or Roger in there for minutes at a time while he grabbed his guitar and the sheets of paper he wrote his songs down on. Then they'd take up camp on the steps out front, since it was summer and the air was warm. It never occurred to Roger before, but in all those times they played and sang outside, perched on the handrails and stretched out across the stairs, not once did someone come or go or stick their head out their window to tell them to knock it off—and sometimes, they'd be out there for hours.

With furrowed brows, Roger thought back to the letter board, wondering if the lack of tenants and the reason Tim, Brian, and him never had to move was somehow related to it. However, the train of thought was stopped abruptly by Tim's return, a collection of papers gripped tightly in his hand. He approached the blonde and gave him a crooked grin.

"It's called 'Step on Me'," he explained, his hands trembling ever so slightly with what the drummer could only assume was excitement. "I want you to tell me what you think."