He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 32

The low buzz of the spotlight intensified as the boys denied Nana another answer, anxiously waiting for the martyred guitarist's inevitable fate. A stream of blood trailed down his chest, and the mutilated skin around the hook stretched more with every passing second. They all knew he only had a few moments before the flesh would give and the wire would snap, the hook ripping through his skin and dropping the left side of his torso—the other hooks straining to pick up the slack and inflicting the same pain as the first.

"Hey!" Nana screamed, snapping her fingers at the distracted group. "Eyes over here."

Everyone but Roger followed her command, the blonde's heart pounding rapidly against his chest and the palms of his hands growing sticky with sweat. The older woman's fiery gaze flickered over to him, and with a tight jaw, let her cane fall to the wayside. As lithe as someone a quarter of her age, Nana lowered herself to the floor, swung her legs over the edge of the stage, and jumped off.

She stood tall in front of the twenty-one-year-old with arms crossed over her small chest, but Roger didn't seem to notice, leaning to the side to keep his eyes on his secret lover; afraid that if he looked away, the worse would happen and the guitarist would take the fatal plunge. What scared him the most was that he wouldn't be able to save him—the restraints around his limbs holding him down.

If he got out of here alive, Roger wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forgive himself for that. He wouldn't be able to go back to school, touch his drumsticks, or even listen to music without being reminded of this, of what happened, of how he fell for Tim's lie and opened Jo's door that night only to wind up here—right where Brian had been the whole time—unable to save him from this nightmare.

Anguish wavered in his teary eyes, and darkening thoughts clouded his mind. His hands tightened into fists, and his wrists tugged at the ropes, but before he could make any substantial progress, Nana grabbed the blonde's chin and jerked his head in her direction.

"What's your name, dear?" she asked, looking down at him in disdain. Her glossy, lacquered nails gouged into his stubble, and his squished cheeks and pursed lips made it almost impossible for him to answer—had he even wanted to.

His resistance became clear to all around him, and before Tim's grandmother could take over more of his projects than she already had, the brunette cleared his throat and replied, "Roger. His name's Roger, Nana."

"Roger," she repeated dotingly, bringing hers and the blonde's faces closer and allowing a deceptively warm smile to curl the corners of her lips upward. "You're going to be a good little boy for Tim and me, aren't you?" She tipped her head towards the stage. "Because it'd be a real shame for a pretty face like yours to end up like his, wouldn't you say?"

The blonde seethed with rage, his ears hot and his breaths heavy.

"Don't you agree?" Nana wondered aloud, shifting her attention to the others. John, Freddie, and Neil—picturing their own demise with a frightening amount of clarity—nodded eagerly. "See? No one wants to see you up there, Roger, especially me." She released the blonde's chin and took a step back, the indents created by the tips of her nails lingering. The older woman straightened her posture and rested her hands on her hips, her eyes locked on his and not an ounce of humor in her voice. "So, tell me. Are you going to be a good little boy for us? Or are you going to be just like your friend up there?"

The anticipation surrounding Roger's response electrified the room. It was like supper all over again, or like in the entryway, when Tim returned from bringing his grandmother to—who they all now knew was—Brian. His defiance threatened not only his chance of survival, but everyone else's too, and while he had already realized this, he couldn't get himself to play their game. He couldn't get behind their rules, or sacrifice his dignity for the supposed greater good. He wanted to do things his way, save himself and everyone else on his own accord, but when the wire connected to the hook in the guitarist's shoulder snapped—Brian falling forward and his left knee hitting the stage with an echoed thud—the blonde had a sudden change of heart.

No scream or cry slipped past the tortured student's lips—only Roger's and the other boys'. Even Tim drew a sharp breath, the horror show taking a turn he hadn't anticipated.

"Let him down!" the blonde shouted, finding his voice at last and shooting out the chair, just to be pushed back down by the restraints still tied tightly around his limbs, the older woman pinning down his forearms.

"If we do, will you promise me you'll be a good boy for us?" Nana questioned, unbothered by the horrific scene behind her—the sharp, metal curve bobbing innocently in the air above Brian's head; the warm blood gushing from the open wound, flowing freely down his atrophied arm.

"Yes!" Roger screamed, tears spilling from his eyes and mascara streaking his cheeks. "Yes, I'll be a good boy! I'll be a good boy for you, I promise! Just please, let him down!"

The matriarch hummed contently and gestured for Tim to do as the blonde asked, the brunette stealing a quick glimpse at the trembling man beside him before begrudgingly picking himself up out of the chair and hopping on stage. As if he was dealing with hunk of raw meat and not a human being, Tim ripped the remaining hooks out of Brian's body, the squelch of the arrowed end tearing through his flesh a second time causing Neil to gag and Freddie to retch, expelling the contents of his stomach on the floor and John's arm and leg.

"Ugh!" the nineteen-year-old groaned, jumping his chair closer to the other teenager while the dark-haired man awkwardly tried to wipe the sick from his lips on the shoulder of his dress.

"I hope you boys know now what to expect from us," Nana announced, a bitter sternness to her words as she traipsed before them, meeting each of their disenchanted gazes. "No more funny business. No more trying to pull quick ones or using your wit to get out of here. I won't tolerate it like Tim or his father did." The brunette lifted his head at the mention of his name, supporting the debilitated guitarist who lacked the strength he needed to stand up on his own. "You're my projects now, and I intend to do what Tim never could." She glanced back at him with narrowed eyes. "Finish you."

Tim dropped his arms to his sides, Brian's battered torso tipping forward and colliding with the hard stage. "What?"

"You heard me," his grandmother growled, turning harshly on her heel and disappearing into the shadows, but not without stopping in front of Neil and caressing his sticky cheek. She wiped away the fallen tears with the gentle brush of her thumb and brought her hand to her lips, kissing them and pressing the residual symbol of affection to the unsettled teenager's forehead. "See you boys later," she cooed.

The reverberating click of her shoes and explosive slam of the door behind her, along with her chilling farewell, sent shivers down all the boys' backs, and the silence that pervaded the dark room amplified the uneasiness bearing down on all their shoulders. Their minds spun and their brows furrowed, trying to make sense of what had just transpired.

"Tim?" Freddie dared to speak up, attracting his friend's bewildered gaze. "What did she mean by finish us?"

The brunette shook his head, pushing his bloodstained fingers through his hair. "I don't know." He chuckled sadly and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."