He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 7

Roger had no time to even think about the answer to that question before Tim returned, once again empty handed. He occupied the space that the blonde had previously sat in and made himself comfortable, spreading out the sheets he'd shared atop the clutter that covered the coffee table. He was careful not to cover the teacups, though, hoping that—at some point—the blonde would cave and take a sip. His plan would play out much smoother that way.

Looking to the drummer, Tim nodded his head, inviting Roger to come and join him. The blonde stayed put, reluctant to shorten the distance between the two of them once more. He feared that if he walked over there and sat down beside him on the arm of the couch, he'd never leave. After all, it seemed like Tim didn't want him to.

"Afraid I'll bite?" the bassist sneered, as if reading his friend's mind.

Roger scoffed. "You wish you could bite me."

The blonde's off-the-cuff reply painted the brunette's cheeks a bright red, averting his embarrassed gaze to the papers in front of him. He picked at them and moved them around, the rustling of the sheets disturbing the silence that otherwise consumed the dingy flat.

"You didn't get your guitar," the drummer pointed out, his emotionless voice cutting through the tension filling the room.

Tim sat there for a moment, true, unadulterated silence blanketing the two, before he clicked his tongue and murmured, "You're right." He pushed himself up off the sofa and started for the hallway yet again, except this time, he stopped dead in the threshold, turning his head over his shoulder and asking, "Why don't you come with me this time in case I forget again?"

Roger swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, understanding that the brunette's question wasn't so much of a question as it was a request; a demand even. He didn't want to let the blonde out of his sight, and in all honesty, Roger didn't want to lose sight of Tim either, so he complied, dragging his feet across the dirty floor and following the bassist to his bedroom.

Lingering in the hallway, the blonde peered around the threshold, surprised to find the room relatively clean. The bassist had a neatly made bed, a nightstand holding a stack of books—presumably for the classes he was taking—a dresser with one of the drawers pulled open—a shirt draped over the edge—and a desk cluttered with papers, used tissues, and a few bottles of lotion. Had the blonde not been standing in the dark hall to remind himself of where he was, he wouldn't have thought that the room was situated at the back of the filthy flat he'd overstayed his welcome in. It seemed so out of place; almost otherworldly.

Tim snatched up the guitar that was leaned against the dresser and held it up as proof of his successful endeavor. "Got it."

Roger snapped out of the slight daze he'd fallen into and flashed him a small grin. "Good. Let's hear it."

He turned to escape to the living room, but when he noticed that the brunette hadn't moved to follow him, he turned back. The two engaged in yet another enduring gaze, the blonde trying to read his friend's thoughts and vice versa. It didn't take long for Roger to realize how useless it was, letting frustration get the best of him and snapping, "Tim, come on. I'm tired of playing this game with you."

"What game?" the brunette muttered, as if he wasn't the one who started it.

"I don't fucking know, Tim, but you're really starting to freak me out and I just want to go home." He crossed his arms uneasily over his chest, stealing a glance at the door that was just a few strides away. Escape was so close, yet at the same time, so far.

"You just got here, though," Tim argued, a lack of conviction in his voice.

"Look, either play your damn song or give me a smoke, because I'm not staying here otherwise," the blonde leveled, shooting a glare in the bassist's direction. Tim clenched his jaw, the syringe burning a hole in his pocket and the neck of the guitar cracking underneath his tightening grip. "Well?" Roger asked when the brunette failed to respond.