He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 8

The library that was but an hour away from shutting its doors and turning off its lights was silent as Roger tried to drown out the escalating thoughts in his head with the words in his biology textbook. Even with the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, the letters sprawled across the page were incoherent. The words they formed weren't English, and neither were the illegible scribbles that covered his notebook. His head rested in the palm of his hand, the other tapping a pen against the textbook, when suddenly, the chair opposite him was pulled out.

The blonde's head snapped up, and over the rim of the glasses he hated being seen in public with, his strained eyes focused on the friend he'd been avoiding for over a week now.

"'Thought I'd find you here," Tim commented as he threw down his backpack on the table and slipped into the seat.

"I'm busy, Tim," the drummer mumbled, pulling the textbook and spiral notebook closer to him in a possessive-like manner, as if the bassist had come there to steal his notes.

"Yeah, I figured as much." An awkward silence blanketed the pair, disrupted by the clearing of the brunette's throat. "Look, Rog, I don't know why you ran off that day—"

Roger couldn't help but scoff. "You don't know why I ran off that day?" He slammed his pen down. "How about the fact that you kept looking at me like I was some girl you wanted to shag, or the fact that you fucking grabbed me so hard that you bruised me?" He raised the afflicted area as proof, the dark fingerprints staining his lower arm faded but still visible.

Tim took a deep breath, controlling his emotions as he answered, "I got carried away. I'm sorry."

"Tell that to my fucking wrist," the blonde muttered, upset that he hadn't been able to drum the past few days because of it.

"I want to make it up to you," the bassist blurted out, sticking his hand into his backpack and pulling out a small box. "Here." He slid it across the table, anxious to see whether Roger would take the bait or not.

Sure enough, curiosity got the best of the drummer and he took the peace offering into his possession, carefully opening the lid—weary of what was inside—and raising an eyebrow. "Jammie Dodgers?" he asked, meeting his bandmate's gaze.

"They were the only ones left in the store," Tim lied, a faint shade of red rising in his cheeks.

Roger's eyes flickered between the package of biscuits and those of the bassist, remembering his strange insistence with the tea and the long, thin bulge in his back pocket that day. He felt crazy for trying to forge a connection between those and this, but the blonde wasn't willing to take any chances.

"I'm not hungry," he countered, sliding the treats back across the table.

"What do you mean you're not hungry?" the brunette snapped, his composure fracturing.

Roger pushed the eyeglasses further up the bridge of his nose and tipped his head down. "Leave me alone, Tim," he murmured, trying to shift his focus back to the blurry words printed on the crinkled page. "I've gotta study."

The bassist clenched his jaw and snatched the Jammie Dodgers up from the table, shooting out of his chair so fast that it toppled over behind him, the crash echoing through the largely empty space and earning Tim the drummer's attention once more. "You're making this very difficult," he growled, his tightened grip crushing the poor box.

"Making what difficult?" Roger dared to ask.

He wouldn't get his answer, though, with the brunette storming off, dissatisfied with the outcome of their encounter. It hadn't gone to plan at all. He had hoped the blonde would accept his offer, take a bite of just one of the cookies and succumb to the darkness that would've washed over him. The effects would only be temporary; Tim made sure of it. He wasn't out to kill the bloke, after all. He just wanted to have him, and do with him what he'd dreamed of doing since the minute he first laid eyes on him.

As usual, though, there was always some sort of obstacle for him to overcome. First it was Brian; now it was Roger himself. Tim would have to come up with something more clever than laced Jammie Dodgers if he were to have his way, or perhaps something that didn't give the blonde a choice, something he would have no say in.

The more the brunette gravitated towards the latter option, the more excited he became. What was once a game of trickery quickly turned into one of stalking, the bassist devoting his time to studying the drummer's routine—where and when he went, who he was meeting up with, how he got there, why he was going, what he did there, etc. In a matter of a week, Tim had Roger's schedule down pat—as if he didn't already know it.

He waited across the street from Jo's flat one night, lurking behind a vehicle parked along the curb. Buried in a heavy parka, a ski mask shoved inside the pocket opposite the one containing the newly filled syringe, he watched the complex's door intently, anticipating the couple's emergence and ginger kiss goodbye before Jo went off to attend her evening class.

Most nights, the arrangement worked out perfectly, with the lecture lasting a painstaking two hours—not to mention that, afterwards, Jo would usually grab a cup of tea with one of her classmates. This gave Roger a perfect excuse to find Brian and "mess around," as he liked put it. However, with Brian gone, the blonde had resorted to spending his nights in, practicing his drumming as much as he could before the pain in his wrist became too overwhelming. Witnessing his frustration firsthand through the window broke Tim's heart, but he knew it would only be a little while longer before the pain would vanish. In fact, Roger wouldn't be feeling anything soon.