He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 28

Roger glared at Freddie—his quivering arms still wrapped tightly around his torso.

The teenager's eyes flickered between the two older men, nervous of the impending quarrel that would most likely result in the loss of his only friend—dare he call the blonde that—in the house. "He wasn't doing anything bad, Freddie," he blurted out, "just keeping me out of yours and John's hair, that's all."

"Y-Yeah," Roger stuttered, warmth slowly creeping back into his bones. "What...What he said."

The dark-haired man in drag narrowed his eyes at the suspicious pair, but ultimately dropped the hunch he had that they were up to no good. After all, there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"Well, if that's the case, why don't you two see to it that you both make yourselves more...presentable," he suggested disdainfully, the costumed schoolgirl and maid exchanging a quick, examining glance with one another before returning their attention to the crimson, cross-dressed showgirl who'd moved his hands to his hips. "I got a call this morning from Tim. He'll be back this afternoon." Freddie paused for dramatic effect—the suspense aroused in the two younger men evident in the slight gravitation they had towards him. His bright red lips curled up into a smirk before he tacked on, "She's coming with him, and if you know what's good for you, you'll look your best."

Roger had barely parted his lips to ask who Freddie was referring to before the latter turned on his heel and strutted away, the click of his pumps reverberating off the grimy walls and sending repeated shivers down the boys' spines. The blonde looked over at Neil for his answer, but by the pale and distant look on the teenager's face, he knew whoever it was that would be returning with Tim couldn't be good.

*****

"Oh, he's here! He's here!" Freddie announced in a sing-song kind of way before abandoning his post at the front door and joining the lineup of misfits arranged in the foyer. The entryway sickened Roger to his stomach.

He hated the memories brought about by the dreaded curved staircase to their left, and the way the vintage chandelier hanging from the ceiling with half its bulbs burned out imbued the foyer with a sinister feeling. What he hated most of all, though, was the realization he came to about the panel nailed to the wall, the one meant to list the apartment numbers and their respective tenants.

Staring at the neglected board as he waited for Tim's arrival, Roger came to believe that the reason that so many of the names were missing wasn't because the landlord simply forgot to update it, but because the building's occupants were all Tim's projects, and as far as the blonde could tell, the brunette couldn't care less about their names, or their identities. The bassist had reduced them all to a mere fantasy—seeing them for who he wanted to be and not who they were—and any chance they had of breaking free was squashed by the fear he instilled in them. Don't do this and don't do that. The drummer couldn't stand it, but what other choice did he have?

Just then, the front door clicked open, and from the blinding white light that flooded into the foyer came Tim, his hair and the long coat he wore encrusted in a thin layer of snow. Trailing in behind him was an elderly woman, frail in stature but lively in spirit—a pair of dark, cat-eyed shades perched on the bridge of her nose, her posture as straight as a pin, and a half-empty bottle of liquor and freshly burning cigarette held loosely in her thin hands.

"Well, isn't this an interesting bunch," the old woman remarked, handing the two invaluable items off to the brunette and approaching the line of masqueraded boys with a pompous air to her step. She lowered her vintage sunglasses to get a better look at the three of them, her narrowed eyes scanning each of them up and down. She made no comments, good or bad, before reaching her hands out and fixing up the boys as she saw fit—tugging the two sides of Freddie's ostentatious dress together, yanking the striped tie around Roger's neck tighter, smacking the wrinkles out of the apron around Neil's waist, and adjusting the cloche hat atop John's head so that it sat straight across his forehead. All the while, Tim kept his distance, blatantly ignoring the irritated, uneasy, terrified, and aggravated gazes thrown his way and allowing the woman to humiliate the men whose existences he diminished to mere dolls, puppets of his own creation.

The brunette's guest took a step back once she was done and hummed at her work, satisfied with the result. "There we go," she murmured happily, clasping her hands together and smiling at the mismatched group. Her grin quickly faded, though, concern washing over her face before she counted the boys off in a whisper. "One, two, three, Freddie..." She turned towards Tim with furrowed brows. "Where's the other one, dear? I thought you said you'd—"

"I'm still working on him, Nana," the bassist interrupted her tersely, noticing the unsolicited attention her question had earned him. An embarrassed but flattering blush painted his cheeks pink before he shifted his wary gaze back to her and tacked on, "He's proving to be more...difficult than the others."

"Take me to him," Nana insisted, stripping herself of the designer handbag she had draped over her fur coat shoulder and shoving it carelessly into John's chest. The boy scoffed upon impact but instinctively clutched the purse in his hands, saving it from dropping to the floor with a soft thud as Tim followed after her—the old woman seeming to know where this other person was despite initially asking for his guidance. Perhaps it was just a courtesy; her way of saying, Come with. The brunette glanced back at the four men lingering behind, his pointed glare conveying the message his mouth didn't. Stay there. Don't move. Don't even blink, or breathe. Just stay there.

Their footsteps echoed through the entryway as they disappeared around the corner and made their way to the back; to the same place, in fact, that Neil had taken Roger earlier. If the snow hadn't been so blinding, the latter would've noticed the small shed situated not too far away from the complex. Its exterior was simple enough to not gain any suspicion, its wood slats worn and the lock used to bolt the door shut rusted with age, but its interior was an entirely different story, as Roger would eventually learn. For now, though, the shed would remain a secret to the blonde—his thoughts lying elsewhere.

Inexperienced and naïve, Roger looked to the two men on his right and the one to his left, hoping that one of them would give them all the cue that they were dismissed and free to, as Freddie had put it, "make themselves scarce." However, that cue appeared to be not forthcoming. John had crossed his arms and started to tap his foot, Neil began to sway back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back, and Freddie had started to whistle under his breath. His whistled melody evolved into a low hum of unintelligible words that only he seemed to understand, the naturally dark-haired man gasping at one point and stuffing his hand down his dress to pull out a slip of paper—along with a small pencil from behind his ear—and scribble down the lyrics he'd come up with. The blonde leaned over to try and catch a glimpse of his work, but he lacked the stealth he needed, and Freddie—picking up on the pair of intrusive eyes—promptly folded up the paper and slipped it back into his dress.

Roger glared at his captor's friend and straightened his posture, mimicking John's stance before throwing his hands down to his sides and blurting out, "So, what now? We just wait for him to come back?"

"Yup," John muttered, suppressing the temptation building inside of him to open the purse in his possession and sort through it by looking at the ceiling.

The blonde shook his head in disbelief. "And how long will that be?"

"What does it matter to you? 'Got a hot date or something?" Freddie sneered. The man laden in red allowed for no rebuttal as he continued sternly, "I told you, Roger. When there's company, you need to be on your best behavior—" he raised a finger, silencing the blonde who took in a quick, sharp breath in preparation to interrupt him, "—and that means not arguing with me when I tell you we wait here until he comes back."

The blonde clenched his jaw, his fists following suit.

"She usually only stays a couple of days," the teenager to his right chimed in, attempting to ease the drummer's heightened frustration. Roger snapped his head at Neil, startling the sixteen-year-old and encouraging him to rattle off, "Sh-She'll be gone before you know it."

Except, she wouldn't be.