He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 17

Suddenly, before the blonde could make the connection himself, a brassy screech hit Roger's ears like nails on a chalkboard, sending a bone-chilling shiver down his spine. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Tim had rolled over, the bed crying out as he shifted into a more comfortable position. His eyes had fallen shut, his head was nestled in the crook of his bent arm, and his lips were parted—a thin stream of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth onto his bicep. He looked so peaceful, so innocent, entirely incapable of doing all the things he'd done to Roger that night. Kidnapping him, drugging him, stripping him bare only to dress him up like a girl, it made no sense.

Maybe Brian was right, he thought, wondering if this all could've been avoided if they had come clean about their messing around.

It wasn't as though the blonde was unaware of the brunette's infatuation with him. Sometimes, he would even use it for his own advantage, but if he had known it would lead to this, he wouldn't have. He would've been honest with him.

But what if Brian had already confessed, and this was Tim's response to it?

The troubling thought didn't sit well with Roger, especially when the possibility occurred to him the guitarist's disappearance might somehow have been linked to it. The last time he saw him was during their little rendezvous at the guitarist's place in between classes, and the last thing they talked about was telling Tim of their affair.

While the brunette hadn't mentioned it, he certainly seemed like he'd found out—strangely dismissive of the blonde's concerns about him being missing and writing lyrics asking "why could I never, ever see he'd step on me" and celebrating the fact that "now that you're gone, everything's fine." The signs were all there, yet Roger overlooked them all, allowing things to progress to this point in time.

Guilty and dispirited, the drummer shifted his attention to the doorway, its allure of freedom and the chance to make things right drawing him towards it. As he leaned forward, the mattress springs squeaked beneath him, reminding him that, although asleep, it was impossible to leave without alerting the brunette of his intentions. If he was to get out, he'd need to do it quietly, quickly, and the only way he could do that would be to—

The realization went unfinished as Tim once again turned over, the bed's ear-piercing creak giving the blonde the perfect opportunity to leap off the edge and slip into the hallway, hiding behind the wall with his heart pounding against his ribcage. Holding his breath, the blonde peered around the threshold and saw that the brunette miraculously hadn't stirred awake.

Roger squeezed his eyes shut in relief and slid down to the floor, holding his tightened chest and attempting to regain control of his staggered breaths. It was now or never; fight or flight; stay or go. There was no time to waste.

The blonde reopened his eyes and turned his head to the left, catching a glimpse down the poorly illuminated hallway and spotting the stairwell he and Tim had come from. Eager to find an exit, he pulled himself to his feet and sidled along the wall, careful to not disturb the sensitive floorboards with his weight. He reached the bottom of the steps and looked back.

The coast was clear.

Slowly, Roger descended the staircase to the next level below, finding himself in a hallway identical to the one he left behind, except this one had no other staircase leading down—at least not off of the one he'd just come down. Dragging his socked feet along the floors that could benefit from a good mopping, the blonde wandered down the hall lined with doors marked similar to the ones above, except instead of C following the room numbers, it was B. His eyes scanned the walls up and down, and his arms wrapped themselves around his torso for comfort—the building growing colder though the sun had started to peek over the horizon, its rays breaking through the cracks in the wooden boards nailed to nearly all the windows.

His search slowed to a stop when he came across an obscure collection of picture frames, none of them hung straight.

At first glance, one would've thought the photographs were of old Hollywood starlets or pin-up models, but as Roger leaned in to get a better look, he noticed something off about them. They didn't look right, just like the person he saw faintly reflected in the protective glass.

Are these all men? the blonde wondered when his eyes landed on the picture centered among the rest, the person captured in the portrait eerily similar in appearance to—

"Hey!"

The drummer jumped at the harsh whisper, turning to face the silhouette lurking at the opposite end of the corridor. From the distance, Roger couldn't tell who it was: Tim or someone else. It was only when they approached him and stepped out of the shadows did Roger see that it was the latter, and while they were dressed like a woman—adorned in a long, black duster and a matching cloche hat—the shadow of a moustache made it clear they were just like him—a man dressed in drag, though purposefully older with his gray, curly, shoulder-length wig and gray dusted eyebrows.

"What are you—" the stranger started to ask when his voice got caught in the back of his throat, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Wait, you're not...who are you?"

"Roger?" the blonde answered, sounding unsure of himself.

"Roger," he repeated, folding his arms over his chest. "You must be new."

"I guess you can say that," the drummer agreed, uncomfortably matching the man's stance. "What about you? Who are you?"

The stranger stuck his hand out. "I'm John."