He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 13

"What? No!" Tim laughed nervously. "I wouldn't...I couldn't...that's not..." He sighed in frustration. "It's hard to explain."

"Try harder," Roger deadpanned, his hand falling back to his side.

"Look, you're not going to understand it just yet," the brunette argued. "You need to let me finish."

"Why?"

It was a reasonable question, and the answer danced on the tip of Tim's tongue, yet he couldn't spit it out. Perhaps he was nervous or embarrassed or ashamed to admit to what he had done and why he was doing it, but it was just as likely that he wanted to keep the blonde in the dark for as long as he could, for both his sake and Roger's.

The boy had been misunderstood his whole life, and he believed it was because people didn't give him enough of a chance; they would find out about him and his hobby and bolt the second the opportunity became available. Tim lost too many people that way, and he'd be damned if he lost Roger like that too, so instead of giving him the answer he desired, the brunette got on with the task at hand—setting down Freddie's gloves and helping Roger out of the tub.

Naturally, the blonde resisted, but after the threat of being knocked out again was put forth, he acquiesced without a comment more. Barely able to hold himself up, Roger clung to his captor as the two of them ventured down the hallway together and up the stairs to a landing that looked oddly familiar. Before he could figure out where he had first seen the walls disguised in antiquated, peeling wallpaper, the floors masked in worn-down rugs, and the doors stained with the ghostly imprints of missing numbers, Roger was guided into a dark room and harshly sat down in a chair.

His head rolled as he attempted to track the brunette around the shadowed room—the floorboards creaking with each step he took. An undeniable sense of déjà vu washed over the blonde, except instead of being blinded by a bright light next, his surroundings were brought into view by a softer, dimmer one that Tim had switched on in the corner.

A low buzz sounded from the bulb that struggled to stay alight but provided enough illumination for Roger to notice the wardrobe filled to the brim with clothes—ones similar to but much more organized than the ones piled on the bassist's couch—and the shelves that circled the ceiling, showcasing a collection of various wigs, all displayed on disembodied mannequin heads. The paint used to give the heads eyes and lips was a combination of chipped and faded and smooth and vibrant colors, making it easy to differentiate which ones were older and which ones were newer. The question was, how old were the older ones?

Curiosity tempted Roger to ask about it as Tim crossed the room to stand behind him, staring intensely at their reflections in the mirror. However, the inquiry fell to the wayside and was quickly replaced by another, the blonde tilting his head to the right and picking up on the window behind them that had been boarded up with a piece of plywood that didn't quite fit, leaving the corners exposed to various degrees and depriving the room of any significant amount of natural light, sun or moon. Why, he had no idea. Perhaps it had been installed to keep what was inside hidden from the world outside, or just as likely, to keep the world outside hidden from what was inside.

The blonde wouldn't figure this out while sitting in the chair, his building thoughts interrupted by the brunette gingerly placing his hands on the sides of his head and tipping it back so that he was looking at it straight on. Silence filled the small room, disturbed only by the squeaking floorboards that sounded every time Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand resting against his chin in deep contemplation.

"What are you doing?" Roger finally spoke, his words barely above a whisper and his glistening eyes locked on the bassist through the reflective surface.

"I'm trying to figure out which look I want to give you," Tim replied, an honest quality to his distracted answer. "I came up with a few before, but...now that you're here, sitting in front of me...I'm not sure any of them will do."

The drummer swallowed hard, watching as his captor nodded to himself, turned on his heel, and approached the wardrobe, parting the dense collection and flipping through the garments until he came across a simple white button-down and a short, black skirt. An excited grin appeared on the brunette's lips as he examined his choices, his new vision coming to life.

He draped the shirt over his shoulder and the skirt over his arm and retrieved a pair of white knee-high socks from the dresser across from the closet, along with a yellow and purple striped tie. Tim set the clothes and accessory on the vanity in front of Roger and disappeared behind him once more, grabbing the short step ladder that had been tucked away in the corner of the room—opposite the light—and positioning it in front of the mannequin head with a soft, blonde wig atop its scalp, complete with bangs and black polka-dotted bows. The brunette stood at the top step, and the ladder wobbled as he extended his hands out and grabbed the entire head, adding it to the vanity as well.

"A makeover," the blonde muttered, stopping Tim in his determined tracks. "You're giving me a bloody makeover?" Roger scoffed. "Jesus Christ, Tim, if that's what you wanted to do, you could've just fucking said something."

The bassist chuckled in disagreement and shook his head, his gaze falling to his feet.

"I'm serious, Tim. You really didn't need to fucking kidnap me and drug me to give me a goddamn makeover."

"It's not just a makeover, though," the brunette confessed timidly.

"Then what is it?"

Tim's eyes slowly lifted up from the ground, a sparkle of derangement in them that matched the twitching corner of his lips. "It's a project."

"A project," Roger repeated flatly, his eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, a project." He stepped behind the blonde and smiled, combing his fingers through the blonde's damp hair to reveal more of his face. "And you're going to be my best one yet."