He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 15

"Wait, I-I thought the makeup was the last thing," the drummer stammered, turning his head to follow Tim as he disappeared behind him once more, ripping open a drawer and rifling through its noisy contents.

"I lied," he answered curtly, retrieving a hairbrush that was worse for wear and a handful of hair clasps, slightly rusted with age.

"Oh, come on, Tim," Roger whined, dropping his head back and listening as the brunette added the items to the collection of old cosmetics scattered about the vanity top. "Haven't you done enough already? Gotten all you need for your dumb project? I want to go home. Jo's probably worried sick about me."

The bassist froze at the mention of the girl's name and the drummer's desire to go home—his description of his project insulting him the most.

"Tim?" the blonde asked when all he heard was silence.

"You're not going home, Roger," he announced sullenly.

The drummer chuckled nervously, his previously placated fears resurfacing. "See, Tim, this is what scares me, when you say stupid shit like that. What do you mean I'm not going home?"

"I mean, you're not going home," he reiterated, standing up from his bended knee and snatching the hairbrush from the vanity. He brought the soft but crooked bristles to the blonde's hair and yanked it back, jerking Roger's head with it. The drummer hissed in pain, but his reaction went unnoticed—or rather, was ignored—as Tim repeated the harsh motion over and over again until he had pulled all the hair back, explaining, "You're not finished yet." He slipped the hair clasps between the golden locks, pinning them tightly in place. "I have so much more I want to do with you." He popped his index finger into his mouth and sucked on it, coating the digit with saliva and using the spit to smooth out the loose hairs he noticed. "This was just the beginning."

"Just the begin—" Roger started to say when he sat forward, ready to stand only to be forced back down by his captor—the impact stealing the words right from his mouth.

"You're ruining it," Tim muttered, lifting his hands off the drummer's shoulders and plucking the wig off the mannequin's head that had seen much better days.

Animosity coursed through Roger's body and kept him seated as the brunette situated the wig atop his head, fitting it just right and swinging around the blonde's front to bring the curls over his shoulders and sweep the bangs all in the same direction. Tim paid absolutely no attention to the glare Roger shot his way as he played with the hair, finishing his work with a prideful click of his tongue and a smirk growing on his lips.

"Ready?" he asked, neglecting to wait for an answer before spinning the chair around and revealing his masterpiece to the blonde.

The drummer immediately sat forward—untethered, this time—and gawked at the reflection he struggled to believe was real. The girl staring back at him mirrored his movements, blinking when he blinked, turning her head left and right and then right again when he turned his, and pursing her lips out at him when he pursed his at her. They were seemingly one in the same, yet they couldn't be; they shouldn't be.

"What do you think?" Tim wondered aloud, pausing to let the blonde respond.

After a long moment of silence whose only achievement was heightening the bassist's nerves, Roger finally whispered, "What the hell did you do to me?" while bringing shaky hands to cheeks that didn't belong to him. He tugged gently at the flawless skin, releasing his fingers and watching it in disbelief as it snapped back into place.

The brunette crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the woman sitting in front of him in admiration. "I made you right."

The blonde broke his gaze away from the baby blues he'd started to lose himself in and glanced up at Tim, bringing both of them back to reality when he asked harshly, "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"No," the bassist replied defensively. "Are you out of yours?"

"What do you think?" he snarled, clenching his jaw and fists tight.

"I think you should stop asking so many questions," Tim answered, turning his back to the blonde and picking up a handful of clothes that had been lying on the floor.

"Well, it's kind of hard not to when I have no idea what the fuck you're doing!" Roger shouted, his voice building as he finished his sentence.

"I already told you!" Tim yelled back, spinning around to face him with that undeniable sparkle of derangement glimmering in his eye. "I'm working on a project, and you're a part of it!"

"But why?" The blonde's voice cracked, his torso pivoted and his hands clinging to the back of the chair. "Why me, Tim?"

The brunette clutched the clothes in his hands as tightly as Roger clutched him on their way from the bathroom to the room they occupied now. His throat swelled and his sight began to blur, a slew of repressed emotions washing over him. He was sad and angry all at once. He was tired—exhausted, really, but his work was far from over. He knew it would be just as easy for him to throw in the towel and assume the identity of the person he was outside these walls as it was for him to stick with it and see his peculiar project through, yet he felt the choice was impossible.

The internal conflict often presented Tim with self-awareness that made it quite clear he wasn't right in the head, but at the same time, he didn't know what that meant—to be right in the head. All he knew was that he had a vision, and that a lot of people struggled to understand it, even when he explained to them. So, having learned over the years that it served him better to say less than more—his grandmother and father teaching him that from a young age—the brunette hung his head and fiddled with the fraying hem of one of the shirts he held as a distraction, mumbling, "I can't tell you."

Roger sighed, folding his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin on top of them. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Not yet," Tim uttered, as if Roger hadn't asked him a question; as if he had only stopped for dramatic effect. His glossy eyes flickered up to meet the blonde's. "You've got to meet the others first."

The drummer straightened his posture. "The others?"