He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 21

The sudden realization was enough to suspend Tim's building excitement completely, his face burning in embarrassment and his grip on the coiled cloth loosening. He laid the towel down on the sink's edge with shaky hands and clutched the porcelain pedestal tightly, trying to ground himself while the world slipped out from under his feet.

He hung his head, a slur of voices filling his ears. Some he recognized, some he didn't. Some were screaming, some he could barely hear at all. They all told him how terrible he was; how fucked up he was; how it was all his fault that—

The sound of tinkling water gradually drowned out the voices, bringing Tim's attention to the toilet beside him, where Roger stood over the bowl, relieving himself—the skirt lifted above his hands instead of dropped to his ankles. Detecting the brunette's scornful stare, the blonde met his gaze and jeered, "What the hell's your problem? Never taken a piss before?"

The bassist rolled his eyes at the blatantly mocking response and turned his head in the opposite direction, heaving a discontented sigh. "You have absolutely no shame, have you?"

"Dressed like this? Stuck here with you?" Roger chuckled, finishing up and letting the skirt fall back over his thighs—his hands finding their way to his hips. "No, Tim, I've no shame at all." The sarcastic words dripped like venom from his lips, earning a glare from the brunette.

"Just take your shirt off for me, will you?" Tim muttered, abandoning his side and heading for the hallway.

"What? Why?" The blonde's brows furrowed in confusion, spinning around to face the brunette who had stopped in the doorway and leaned against the threshold he had pushed Roger into in his fantasy. "You just put me in it."

"And then you got your blood over it," the bassist explained, a sardonic grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "I can't right take a picture of you with blood all in your shirt, now, can I?"

The color drained from Roger's face, snippets of the photographs he tore down and threw violently at the wall flashing before his eyes. "Is...Is that what's next?" he stammered, remembering vividly the one of their band's guitarist. "A picture? Like the one you took of Brian?"

Tim's smile faded instantly, the question striking him speechless. The blonde crossed his arms, waiting for the answer the brunette wasn't willing to give—his mind drifting off to another place. The drummer cleared his throat, bringing the bassist back to reality and reminding him that he'd asked him something. Tim straightened his posture and replied tersely, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Roger narrowed his eyes. "Oh, I think you do, Tim. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."

The brunette clenched his jaw, frustrated with the blonde's pesky interrogation. "Just take your shirt off, Rog, before I take it off for you."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Roger grumbled under his breath, angrily conceding to Tim's command by unbuttoning the shirt with less charm than the brunette had envisioned and awkwardly slipping himself out of it. He extended the soiled garment out to the bassist with lips drawn into a straight, unamused line.

"Now I'm going to go clean this," the bassist announced bitterly, snatching the soiled garment from the drummer's bandaged hands and using it to point down the hall. "You're going to go back to the room and wait for me. Understood?"

"'Trust me not to run off?" the blonde sneered, defiantly folding his arms over his bare chest and raising his brows.

Tim smirked, balling the shirt up in his hands. "I already told you, Rog, this isn't about trust." He punched the condensed article of clothing. "It's about you doing what I tell you, and if you don't, maybe you'll end up just like Brian." His crooked smile fell flat. "Or worse."

Deserting the blonde with his threat and an unknowing shrug of his shoulders, the brunette slipped out of the room—his footsteps reverberating off the dark walls and echoing down the staircase.

Roger bit his lip, nervously scanning the small, dingy room he'd been left behind in before resigning himself to Tim's order, trudging down the corridor that had grown brighter since he first walked down it to the bedroom where the television was still on, the movie was still playing, and the bed was still a mess. The blonde stood in the doorway, knowing that, the second he stepped over the threshold, this would be it.

This would be his home.

This would be his life.

The blonde glanced over at the stairwell, his last chance to escape only a few short strides away, but he found his feet glued to the floor, coming to the sudden realization that this wasn't only his home or life now, but John's, Brian's, and any of the other people that Tim lured in with a false sense of security. It wasn't even security the brunette offered, but fear and manipulation, and Roger knew that if there was any way of getting out of here, it wasn't going to be done alone.

He'd need all the help he could get.