He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 37

I honestly didn't expect these next three chapters to go in the direction they did, but we're just going to roll with it, alright? Alright.

"I still can't believe you fucking took John's side over mine," Roger grumbled as he knelt down to help Brian into the frock John had retrieved for him—his skin sticky with residual bath water and an old towel wrapped messily around his head, holding his hair out of his face and off his neck. The two had been left alone in the basement bathroom—John sneaking off to find Brian a pair of shoes to complete the outfit.

The curly-haired student chuckled, holding onto the blonde's shoulders for support as he weakly lifted one leg and hovered it over the empty middle of the nightgown. "What are you talking about? I didn't take anyone's side."

"Oh, really?" The drummer tipped his head back to look resentfully up at the guitarist who'd convinced the frustrated teenager to spare his knotty locks from the pair of shears he snatched after it seemed as though he'd never detangle the bloody, matted mess of curls. "John may have a point, Rog. Maybe it's worth a try, Rog." He scoffed. "Yeah, that doesn't sound like you taking his side at all."

"You're being childish," Brian muttered, sticking his foot through the satin garment and preparing to do the same with the other when Roger abruptly stood, causing him to wobble unsteadily and almost lose his footing over the discarded dress. Thankfully, he didn't.

"Am I?" the blonde challenged, crossing his arms in defiance. "Am I being childish, Brian?"

The curly-haired student sighed, refusing to surrender to the drummer's antics. "All I'm saying, Roger, is that you're acting like we're asking you to drive yourself off a cliff."

"No, driving off a cliff would be more enjoyable," he argued, bending back down and grabbing the nightgown. He tugged angrily at the fabric, forming the hole for Brian to step into again. "What you're asking me to do is fuck the guy who kidnapped us so you all can get out of here while I get left behind and have to deal with him all by myself."

Just then, before Brian could reassure him that wouldn't happen, John pushed the door in with his back and spun around to reveal a pair of bunny slippers in his hands. "Alright, these were all I could find," he announced, glancing at the pair who stood in a compromising position that truly wasn't what it looked like. "Oh my," he whispered, facing away from them as fast as he could to give them their unnecessary privacy.

"He's just helping me get dressed, John," the guitarist clarified with only a touch of embarrassment.

The nineteen-year-old slowly peered over his shoulder, meeting the two older men's irritated gazes. Having missed the conversation from before, he assumed their annoyance was directed at him—for what reason, he didn't know—yet, aware of the dynamics of the house, he approached the pair with caution while simultaneously attempting to mask his unsettledness with a straight posture and a head held high.

"Has he given it any more thought?" he asked, setting the slippers down on the floor by the curly-haired student's feet and nodding towards the blonde crouched down beside him.

"He says he can't do it," Brian answered, shooting a narrowed-eye glance down at the man in question.

"Sorry for not wanting to suck Tim's dick till I choke to get you out of here," Roger apologized without an ounce of sincerity or conviction.

The guitarist, shaking his head at the drummer's vulgarity, grabbed his shoulders and stepped fully into the frock, murmuring, "No one ever said you had to do that."

"You didn't have to," the blonde sneered, pulling the slip up over the curly-haired student's waist and helping him stick his arms through the wide shoulder straps that converged in the front to form a complimenting V. The dress itself might have been flattering too if Brian had the body for it and was several years older, but the lacy, satin, soft pink slip hung loosely from his thin, emaciated frame.

Brian looked to his left and caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked, blood-splattered mirror above the sink. He hadn't seen himself in weeks, but in the distorted image that the reflective surface showed him, he vaguely recognized the man staring back at him. Hoping it would make him look more like his old self, he ripped the towel off his head and let his damp hair fall to his abused shoulders. He frowned. His freed mane didn't quite make a difference, but it did mask the bruises stretched across his pale skin and wrapped his cold neck in some much-needed warmth.

"Oh," John blurted out, sticking his hand into the fur coat he'd thrown back on before leaving the room and extracting a pair of magenta and black striped socks to the curly-haired student. "I got these for you too. They were the cleanest ones I could get my hands on."

"Thanks, John," the guitarist muttered, bringing the socks into his possession and rolling them back and forth in his hands. It embarrassed him how weak he'd become—the thought of leaning back on the emptied tub's edge, reaching down, and pulling the socks over his feet daunting.

Roger, standing with his hands on his hips and his foot tapping impatiently against the cold tiles, noticed this and heaved a begrudging sigh. "Allow me." He grabbed the socks out of Brian's hands and gestured for him to take a seat, John jumping in and guiding him carefully onto the rounded, porcelain ledge. The nineteen-year-old kept a cautious hold on him as Roger got down on his knees once more and maneuvered the striped socks over his lover's shriveled, clammy feet.

"I saw Tim out front, you know," the teenager said, glancing down at the disinterested blonde who refused to give him his attention. "He was sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette. I think it would be good if you went and talked to him."

"Not happening, John," Roger grumbled, tugging the sock over Brian's heel.

"The least you could do is bum a smoke from him," he pushed. "Any of us would get thrown into the shed if we tried, but you, I think you could really get somewhere with him."

The drummer glared at the nineteen-year-old. "What part of 'no' don't you fucking understand?" he snapped. "I'm not doing it, end of discussion." He reached for the bunny slippers and moved them over so they sat directly in front of the guitarist's feet.

"Rog, don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable?" Brian interjected, the blonde's glare transferring over to him.

"No, I think you're being unreasonable," he replied, the childish attitude that the guitarist had previously alluded to making its reappearance as he picked himself up off the floor, brushing the dirt off his tights. "No amount of seduction is going to get Tim to change his mind, anyways. He's fucking crazy."

"Yeah, and so are you," Brian argued, wiping the glare off Roger's face and replacing it with a jaw dropped in astonishment. He slid his feet into the slippers one by one, wiggling his toes and explaining, "You know you've always had a better understanding of him than I did; that's why you guys got along so well before all this." The blonde rolled his eyes. "Come on, Roger. Do it for me."

The cross-dressed drummer chuckled in disbelief. "What, you really want me to cheat on you to get us out of here?"

"It's not cheating if we're not together, right?" Brian's brusque question painted Roger's cheeks a shameful shade of red, the blonde instantly recognizing the words to be his own. "Right," the guitarist answered himself, realizing he wasn't going to get a response from the drummer, "so stop being a prick and go talk to him. It's not going to kill you."

The curly-haired student then brushed past the blonde, dragging himself to the door and clinging to the threshold that separated the dingy bathroom from the even dingier hallway. He closed his eyes in defeat, his legs like jelly beneath his torso. He couldn't go much farther on his own, and while the nineteen- and twenty-one-year-olds both realized this, it was the former who stepped forward—pushing the latter back with a disdaining shake of his head—and joined the eldest's side, providing him the support he needed to venture into the shadows, to wherever it was that the teenager would take him.

Left alone, Roger kicked the tub in the center of the room as hard as he could—the pain that exploded through his toes up to his heel eliciting a stifled shout. Instinctively, the blonde grabbed his foot, falling to the ground and curling inward on himself, wondering if perhaps they were together this all could've been avoided.

After some thought, he doubted it.