He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 25

Tim made his first mistake that morning, bringing Roger to a place that he recognized almost instantly. The piles of women's clothes gathered on the furniture and the mountains of dirty dishes consuming the countertops in the kitchen were all too familiar, and it didn't take long for the blonde to realize that he was standing once again in the brunette's flat, and that the building he'd been dragged through was the same one they escaped to after their little escapade at the counter store.

His breakthrough revelation went unnoticed as the bassist wandered over to the refrigerator, opening it and scanning the shelves for something to satiate the drummer's growing hunger. It had been a while since the fridge had been stocked, and many of the items taking up space on the shelves weren't for typical consumption. Tim huffed before slamming the door shut and turning on his heel, crossing the kitchen to search through the cupboards.

Roger, lingering near the doorway in fears of venturing further into the apartment, leaned back and noticed that the cabinet shelves were lined with a peculiar collection of Kilner jars, filled with various liquids of all colors and consistencies. Some even contained something solid, but from where the blonde stood, he couldn't figure out what they were. Part of him was afraid to know, his mind drawing all sorts of conclusions. After all, at this point, nothing seemed impossible.

It shocked the drummer, however, when the bassist extracted a seemingly normal box of oats from the cupboard, and after that, a can of baked beans. He turned towards Roger and held them up, asking, "Porridge, or beans on toast?"

"E-Either," he choked out, already salivating at the thought of eating something, anything.

"Beans on toast, it is," Tim decided, re-shelving the box of oats and setting the can down on the counter beside the stove. The blonde's stomach grumbled as the brunette pulled out a well-worn pot from the assorted pile of cookware, placing it on the stove and whipping out his lighter to spark the flame.

"This is your flat, Tim," Roger blurted out, earning a slow-turning glance from his captor.

"And?" the bassist replied, his jaw clenched and his hand hovering close to the grates—the lighter he held hosting a flame but the burner it was trying to ignite silent, still.

The blonde crossed his arms over the clean, white shirt and leaned against the threshold, revealing, "That's why you wouldn't let me in the other day; why you made me wait outside, isn't it?" Tim, unamused by Roger's deduction, returned his focus to the stovetop, finally getting the burner to take to the flame. The drummer gasped and pointed an accusatory finger at the bassist, thinking about the events that transpired from that day to now and how they connected to one another. "You didn't get that cut on your cheek from falling either, did you? One of the others got out, and you fought to get them back into hiding."

"You're not making any sense, Rog," he grumbled without looking over at him, shoving the lighter into his pocket with the hairbrush and snatching the can of beans up from the counter. He pulled back the tab on the aluminum container and yanked the top open with a pop, ripping it off and throwing the sharp-edged lid into the crowded sink.

"Who was it, the one who got out?" the drummer continued to pry, his honest question preventing the dishonest brunette from flipping the can over and letting the beans swimming in sauce drip into the pot below. "Was it Brian? John? Someone else I don't know about?"

Tim glared at Roger and his persistent interrogation, muttering, "Brian's not here, and I don't know any Johns."

"Well, he seemed to know you," the blonde argued, peeling himself away from the threshold and stepping into the mess that was his bandmate's flat.

The brunette gritted his teeth—his grip on the can of beans tightening. If it weren't for the unexpected knock on the door that disrupted the flat's growing tension, the can might as well have burst in his hand, dirtying the counter, the stovetop, and his jumper and requiring him to wear bandages around his hands too. The loud rap stopped all of that, though, drawing both the brunette's and the blonde's gazes to the man who hadn't been seen since helping the former bathe the latter.

It was evident in the worried expression that washed over his face that he knew he walked in on something he shouldn't have, or saw something he wasn't supposed to see, but he quickly composed himself and looked over at the bassist. "There's a phone call for you, darling," he announced after clearing his throat.

"Well, I'm kind of in the middle of something right now, Fred," the brunette growled, tipping his head toward the blonde, who the dark-haired man subsequently eyed up and down with a contented hum.

Freddie ignored the suspicious eyebrow Roger raised at his response to his appearance and turned his focus back to Tim, urging, "You really should take this call, though, Tim. It's her."

The drummer had no idea who this mysterious caller was, but he knew she must've been important, for the bassist heaved a frustrated sigh and slammed the can of beans down on the counter, storming out of the flat without any further argument or wait—his friend in eager tow.

Abandoned, Roger didn't know what to do with himself. The thought of escape naturally crossed his mind, but the boarded-up windows that cast shadows in nearly every room he entered and at the end of almost every corridor he traversed quickly reminded him of how futile the endeavor would be. The chance that Tim hadn't also nailed them shut or sealed them with glue or a fresh coat of paint was slim, and the possibility that he had left the windows in the living space he claimed for himself untouched was unlikely. He wasn't dumb enough to allow such a vulnerability; nor was he stupid enough to leave the doors unlocked, though the blonde had yet to see the brunette pull out a key ring or even use one to get into the different rooms they'd visited over the course of last night. Regardless, Roger doubted that Tim would be so foolish as to leave the main entry points without some sort of security measure. After all, he couldn't risk losing any of his projects. If one were to get out, there was no way he wouldn't be found out. No way.

The hiss of the burner's flame brought the drummer back to reality, luring him over to the stove. He picked up the can of beans—his stomach growling—and poured them into the pot. A soft sizzle filled the air, along with a smell that Roger hadn't encountered since he was a child. The corners of his lips twitched at the memory the meal elicited, and just for a second, the blonde forgot where he was, what he was wearing, and why he was at Tim's stove in the first place.

Roger didn't consider himself a cook in any capacity, unable to boil a simple egg, but he figured he couldn't do any harm warming up some beans, or making some toast. He scoured the Kilner-jar filled cabinets and crammed counters for a loaf of bread, and when he resorted to searching through the freezer—the buried bread box empty—he screamed and threw the door shut just as quickly as he had opened it, terrified by what he saw.