He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 11

A tear trickled down Roger's cheek as the warm wax came in contact with his skin, right below his waistline. This was the first time that the blonde realized he'd been stripped of his clothes, the bassist's rather clumsy act of undressing him failing to make a lasting impact on his memory because he didn't know it happened. He didn't see it; he didn't feel it. He couldn't feel really anything until this moment, when Tim ripped back the thin, cloth strip he draped over the hot wax and removed about half of the blonde's pubic hair with one, harsh pull.

The sensation tore through Roger's body, his arms and legs shooting off the table and straining against the leather belts that held them down. Unable to produce the scream he wanted to, he dug his front teeth into his lower lip—a loud, agonized growl emanating from the back of his dry throat. A pang of guilt washed over the brunette, who hated to see the blonde in so much pain. He didn't mean to hurt him, but beauty was pain, and all Tim ever wanted was to make the world beautiful by making people beautiful. He had an undeniable eye for it, and though his methods were unorthodox, he was on a mission. When he saw Roger, he knew he'd never get the chance again to make something so beautiful, and so he did what he needed to do.

The drummer's anguish wasn't strong enough to stop the bassist from repeating the process over and over again, and he didn't stop until there was no hair left on the blonde's body save his head and face. It helped both of them that Roger had fallen unconscious after a short while, the pain too excruciating to endure.

By the time the blonde had come to, he found himself alone. His wrists and ankles were newly raw, and his cheeks were sticky with tears. His entire body ached, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open under the blinding light. He groaned and turned on his side, only to be immediately discouraged.

"No, don't!"

Roger's adjusting gaze drifted towards the voice that belonged to none other than Tim, the brunette rushing up to catch him before he fell, though with the way the blonde lay—his head tipped to one side—it appeared as if he had run across the wall to him.

"You're not strapped in," the bassist explained, a softness to his remark that was supposed to comfort the drummer but instead encouraged him to take the fleeting opportunity and roll over the other side of the table, landing on the cold, tiled floor with a thud. With his heart racing, his mind a blur, and one objective in mind, Roger scrambled to get to his feet, but before he could gain his footing, Tim jumped over the table and pinned him to the ground. The blonde let out a harrowing cry, the bassist pressing him down into the ground with an unforgiving force.

"Where do you think you're going?" Tim huffed, his heart beating just as fast as the blonde's, and his breathing just as uneven.

Roger turned his head, resting his cheek against the floor. Had the adrenaline not run its course and left him helpless, he would've put up more of a fight. There was a begrudging quality to his voice as he looked back at his captor out of the corner of his eye and answered, "Where do you think?"

The brunette sighed, lying down on the blonde's bare back and taking a piece of his hair in his hand, twisting it mindlessly between the pads of his fingers. "Look, I know you don't get it right now—"

"You're right," the drummer snapped, gritting his teeth. "I don't!"

"But, in time, you will!" Tim cried, sitting up and taking the pressure off Roger's back, the drummer drawing in a much-needed deep breath. "In time, you will," the bassist repeated, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips as he stared at the blonde who had turned his head the other way. "You just have to trust me."

"Trust you? Fucking trust you?" Roger laughed. "Jesus, Tim, I haven't trusted you since the minute we met!" The brunette's frown transformed into a scowl, upset by the blonde's confession, so much so that he picked himself up off of him—his feet still planted firmly on the ground, straddling the blonde—and tore open the medicine cabinet over the sink that looked like it was one loose bolt away from falling off the wall.

What piqued Roger's interest wasn't the unlabeled, amber bottle or the dirty rag that Tim extracted, but the cracked mirror door. The fractured glass was speckled in red, especially near the point where the crack seemed to emanate from, as if someone had gotten upset and launched their fist into the reflective surface. He figured the damage to the medicine cabinet couldn't have been recent, for he didn't remember seeing any gauze or scars on the brunette's knuckles recently—or ever, for that matter. That meant someone else was responsible; perhaps someone who had been there before the blonde was. The only question was, who?

The drummer's speculations wouldn't develop much more than that, though, with Tim bending back down, harshly flipping him over, and shoving the chloroform-soaked rag in his face. The brunette held the pungent cloth up to the blonde's mouth and nose until his resistance subsided and he succumbed to the darkness once again.