He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 20

The answers to his questions would come in due time, but they served their purpose in the moment—distracting the blonde long enough for the brunette to remove all the glass from his hands without any trouble and bandage them up with surprising expertise. It was only when Tim folded the rag in upon itself and stood up from the tub's edge to announce, "There, good as new," that Roger snapped out of the daze he was in, flipping his gauzed hands over and back in amazement.

"Thanks," the drummer murmured, watching the bassist throw the rag with the small pieces of glass into the trash bin by the sink. He then turned the faucet on, the familiar creaking of the pipes filling the air before a rust-colored stream of water spewed harshly from the spout. A sense of déjà vu washed over the blonde, who remembered the same thing happening the day Tim had invited him to his place to work on his song.

He raised a suspicious brow as the brunette waited for the water to turn clear before cupping his hands underneath the faucet head, ducking down, and splashing his face with the water. Tim hid behind his hands for what felt like an eternity before dragging his fingers through his hair, pulling it back. Holding his hands at the back of his head, he straightened his posture and stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror hung above the sink, the image distorting the longer he looked at it.

This phenomenon wasn't new to the bassist. In fact, his first experience with it was when he was a child. Naturally, it terrified him, but as he grew and times changed, his curiosity was piqued by how much the person staring back at him would change. Sometimes, if he stared long enough, he could turn into someone, something he hardly recognized. Eventually, the same thing started happening with other people, and while he never shared this with anyone, it gave him a thrill like nothing else—aside from his projects, that is.

Tim would've lost himself completely in his altered reflection had it not been for Roger staring at him through the mirror as well. Noticing the blue eyes locked on his, the brunette stuck his hands back under the stream—his dampened hair falling back into place—and brought the collected water to his chest, rubbing away the streaks of dried blood.

The way he ran his hands over his body was mesmerizing—his muscles that were usually covered by jackets and sweaters glistening in the dim lighting, and the droplets of water trickling down his flat, toned stomach to the waistband of his underwear, where the off-white fabric absorbed them. The blonde didn't want to look away, couldn't look away, but as soon as the brunette turned his head over his shoulder to glance back at him, he turned his head in the opposite direction, folding his bandaged hands over his lap—his cheeks painted red and his legs crossed in an attempt to hide the bulge that returned with an unforgiving vengeance.

Tim smirked at Roger's obvious physical fluster, keeping his thoughts to himself as he snatched the worse-for-wear towel from the rack and dried himself off. While he didn't look back, he did catch a glimpse of the blonde through the mirror, seeing that—out of the corner of his make-upped eye—he too was stealing another glance.

The bassist bit his lip, suppressing the smile that wanted to tug at the corners of his mouth in wonder of what would happen if they were both to give in to their urges, instead of fighting them like they were.

He imagined their eyes would meet, holding each other's gaze as Roger stood up from the edge of the tub and Tim set the towel down on the sink. The latter would spin around, gravity pulling them together, and the brunette would graze the blonde's cheek with delicate fingers, tucking a loose piece of hair behind his ear. The intimate gesture would bring their lips closer, and Roger would be the first to lean in, connecting their lips with an effortlessness that would take Tim by surprise.

Melting into the embrace, they'd then press their bodies against one another, and the bulges protruding from their respective black skirt and boxers would push into their thighs. Lustful moans would slip past their lips into each other's mouths, and they'd stumble over each other's feet in a graceless dance towards the doorway leading out to the hall, trying to find a surface to support them.

The blonde, slammed against the threshold, would pull back, grinning at the lip gloss that had transferred from his lips to the brunette's. He'd tauntingly drag his hands up Tim's nude sides, and instead of trailing his fingers up to his mouth to swipe his thumb across his glossy lip, Roger would bring them to the top of his own stained shirt and undo the button closest to the top. He'd tug apart the two freed sides of the shirt to reveal more of his chest, moving down to the next button to do the same, over and over again until he reached the bottom.

Once there were no more buttons to undo, he'd rip the shirt open and let the sides settle outside the skirt, flashing a seductive smirk at the brunette who would dive back in to capture the blonde's lips with his and slide the garment off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor—followed shortly after by the skirt that had ridden up from the drummer's waist to his navel and the boxers that had grown a little too tight for the bassist's comfort.

Skin to skin, with Roger's back to Tim's chest, the two would revel in the passion of their tryst and forget about the situation they were in, losing themselves to each other and the moment. They would act as if they were the only ones in the buildings—their breaths heavy and their moans loud, intensifying with every sensational kiss, thrust, and touch.

The brunette pictured it, heard it, felt it, but his fantasy ultimately betrayed him, for when he opened his eyes—hoping to witness his unraveling of the blonde—he found himself back at the sink, alone, with the towel twisted in his hands.