He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 35

Brian stretched his arm out of his parka and stole another glance at the watch wrapped around his wrist—the longer of the two hands slicing through the two of the twelve while the shorter hovered below it, by four. He heaved a frosty sigh and tucked his hand back under his arm, his shoulder pressed up against the brick wall outside the entrance of Ealing Art College, where Tim had signed up for a drawing class. The students should've just been getting out, and the guitarist was determined to catch the bassist before he could slink off.

The two hadn't spoken since the incident in the library. The curly-haired student couldn't tell if he was avoiding the brunette or if it was the other way around. Either way, the divide between them was growing, and if they were ever to move past what happened and get through the recording of their band's album, they needed to talk.

Brian's head snapped up at the click of the door, a small group of chattering students emerged from inside. The curly-haired student's gaze flickered among their faces, trying to find the one he was looking for, but it was nowhere to be found.

The guitarist's rosy-cheeked face fell, certain that the bassist had class that day. He peeled himself away from the wall and ventured up the steps, prepared to enter the building and search for him when the door opened once more to reveal just the person he was looking for.

"Tim!" he exclaimed, grinning. "Hey."

"Hi," the brunette muttered, stepping outside—the door closing loudly behind him.

"'Think we can talk for a second?" Brian rattled off, the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips faltering.

Maintaining a straight face, the bassist brushed past him, hitting his shoulder harshly against the guitarist's and nearly knocking him back. "About what?"

"I think you know what," he replied, following his bandmate out to the salted pavement.

The brunette stopped dead in his tracks and spun on his heels, startling the curly-haired student who almost bumped into him. "I don't want to talk about it here."

"What if we went to my place?" the guitarist suggested, referring to his shoddy, hole-in-the-wall flat he and Roger would retreat to when their lust for one another transgressed the public settings they normally escaped to. It wasn't much, but at least there, they could talk honestly, and without the fear of being overheard—except by his neighbors, though the chance the young, teenage couple were actually there or lucid enough to understand what was going on was slim.

Tim didn't immediately respond, encouraging Brian's anxious heart to beat even faster and harder than it already was. Finally, after some thought and the adjustment of the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder, he answered, "I'd rather we talk at my place."

"S-Sure!" the curly-haired student stammered, relieved that his idea wasn't completely dismissed. "We can go to your place, if that's what you want."

The corner of Tim's lips pricked upward into a devious smirk. "Great."

The walk to the bassist's flat was long and cold, the pair fighting against the blistering, gusty wind that relentlessly blew snow at their faces. Their hands were shoved into their pockets, and their toes felt like ice cubes inside their shoes.

Grateful to be out of the harsh winter that had taken over most—if not all—of London, it didn't occur to Brian as he stepped into the warm apartment complex that he'd never been past the front door. He surveyed the foyer and noticed the antiquated light fixtures, the curved staircase that had seen better days, and the disorganized board that should've listed the building's tenants but was missing so many letters and numbers that it appeared as though no one lived there. Curiosity bubbled up inside of him, but before any questions could be asked, Tim's voice sounded from above.