He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 23

Glaring at the brunette as he crossed the room, the blonde begrudgingly slipped into the white shirt and off the bed, weight instantly bearing down on his shoulders as his feet touched the floor. He clutched the corner of the bed for support, trying to acclimate himself to the agony that spread across all his limbs. Another step forward seemed impossible, unfathomable, but Tim's impatient "Come on, Rog, we don't have all day here" from down the hall provided him the push he needed.

Roger stumbled out of the room and looked left to see Tim by the stairs, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. The bassist said nothing before disappearing down the steps, the drummer trailing behind shortly after while fumbling with the buttons of the shirt draped loosely over his shoulders.

The pair traversed two flights of steps to enter a hallway that had yet to be touched by the light of day—and, much like the other corridors and rooms, would never be. Instead, their path was illuminated by several antiquated, glass globe lamps attached to the walls. Each provided its own light. One shone dimly, the other flickered incessantly, and the last glowed so brightly the blonde knew it was bound to go out at any moment. Thankfully, he and Tim arrived at their destination before it did, the latter flicking on a switch and revealing a room littered with a slew of props, a large, taut, off-white backdrop, and a vintage camera situated atop a wooden tripod—its legs chipped and nicked and chewed.

"Stay here," Tim advised, grabbing Roger's shoulder and giving it a tight, reaffirming squeeze that conveyed the consequences there'd be if he were to do anything else.

The drummer grew tense, a shiver trickling down his spine as the bassist relinquished his hold of him and slipped away—his fingers exploring the entire length of his arm before reluctantly pulling back. Roger turned his head and watched Tim escape down the hall and into a different room. What was strange about these rooms was that they weren't numbered like the others. These doors were bare, and there were no lingering shadows of previous identifiers. However, the sound of the brunette rifling through whatever he had gotten into was oddly familiar. It sounded just like when he—

Tim reemerged from the room, stuffing what makeup he hadn't already stored in the pockets of his trousers. He met the blonde's suspicious stare but refused to explain himself, instead sliding past him into the room—the hairbrush from the night before sticking out of his back pocket—and sifting through the hoard of items that had collected along the walls.

Roger clutched his grumbling stomach—hunger now added to the pain that consumed him. It seemed like such a distant memory, the last time he ate. It was just after Jo had left for her class. He'd plopped down on the couch, snatched up the bag of crisps the two of them had been sharing before she had to go, and dug his hand into the foiled package. He'd only gotten a few crisps in his mouth and a few commercials on the telly before a knock resonated from the door. Had he known what was on the other side of it, he wouldn't have answered it. He would've kept eating his crisps and caught the preview of the show's next episode, but instead, he opened the door and stepped right into Tim's trap.

His stomach growled louder, loud enough for the brunette to acknowledge the dilemma.

"I'm sorry," the blonde apologized, his cheeks burning a faint shade of red. "It's just—"

"We'll eat after this," Tim muttered, standing up from the ground he knelt down on and pulling out an old school desk from the clutter. Its metal feet scraped against the floorboards, the brunette inspecting the antique before lifting it and bringing it over to the backdrop that reached all the way to the ceiling and rolled out on the floor a good couple meters.

Roger's eyes widened at the crimson specks staining the backdrop on the ground. They were everywhere, but the largest were near the feet of the desk—perhaps where the front legs of a chair had been prior.

The blonde could picture it vividly—Brian thrashing in the chair Tim had set out for him while the latter attempted to tie him down, the ropes he tried using inferior to the guitarist's resistance. The blood the coiled fibers drew splattered on the backdrop as the curly-haired college student kicked his legs and ripped his arms out of the brunette's grasp. When Tim swapped the ropes out for belts, though—his partner in crime stepping in at the last minute with them—and tightened the replacements as much as he could, the deep red liquid seeped from the wounds and dripped down the wood to the smooth, white canvas, pooling by the chair's feet. The brunette didn't care, though. He got his picture, and he was going to get this one too—bandaged hands and all.

The clatter of props snapped the blonde out of the daze he coaxed himself into, his attention shifting to the corner of the room where Tim had extracted a standalone chalkboard on wheels—its black surface smeared in chalk dust and a lone, felt eraser sitting in the tray.

"Of course you have a blackboard," Roger mumbled, earning a smug grin from the bassist who rolled the chalkboard onto the backdrop behind the desk and positioned it at an angle.

"What, you don't?" Tim inquired teasingly.

"No, I'm not a psychopath."