He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 38

Limping his way to the front of the building, Roger pulled open the door and—sure enough—Tim was where John said he'd be, sitting on the steps with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He hadn't adorned himself with any more clothing than he'd been in before, letting the bitter cold cut through his button-down, t-shirt, and jeans like knives. The only thing different was the pair of amber aviators resting on the bridge of his nose.

The blonde hugged himself for warmth, clearing his throat to gain the brunette's attention. Tim didn't seem to hear him, though, and kept his back to him, taking another drag from his half-smoked cigarette. It wasn't his first, as indicated by the discarded butts scattered about the foot of the stoop.

"Hey, can I have one?" the drummer called out, his voice whipping the bassist's head over his shoulder and revealing the streaked tears running down his face. Roger's face contorted in an unusual way, shocked to discover his bandmate in such a vulnerable state. Sure, he'd seen him when he was seated in front of the stage, unresponsive and curled up within himself, but never had he seen him in tears before—in tears of anguish, at least.

Tim swiped at his sticky cheeks and returned his gaze forward, muttering, "Go back inside, Roger."

"I could really use a smoke, Tim," he pleaded. "It's been a rough day for us both. Please?"

The brunette let out a heavy sigh, his forced breath manifesting itself in the frigid air. "Fine. Just one."

Triumphant, Roger smirked, stepping outside and joining Tim on the cold and wet steps. He tried not to react to the less than preferable condition he willingly subjected himself to—the snow soaking through the blonde's tights—and instead held out his hand, palm up, watching as Tim flipped open the soggy cigarette pack he'd buried in the snow beside him and picked out the only one left. He offered it to the shivering drummer, who accepted it with a small, appreciative grin before sticking in between his lips that began to take on a bluish hue. Tim shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, flicking open the top and holding the flame that struggled to stay alight to the end of the white stick. Roger inhaled deeply, the nicotine warming his body almost instantly. He leaned back into the step he claimed and exhaled happily, never feeling more relaxed in the situation he was in than he did now.

The odd couple sat in an awkward yet comfortable silence, taking unspoken turns breathing in the smoke and blowing it out towards the ashy sky hanging high above them.

The blonde stared at the overcast clouds—the soft, thoughtful click of his tongue attracting a quick, suspicious glance out of the corner of the brunette's eye. "You know something, Tim?" He turned towards him and smirked. "I think I'm starting to get used to this."

A faint chuckle emanated from the back of the bassist's throat. He brought the white stick back up to his lips and breathed in, letting the smoke escape through his nose before he coughed and responded, "Sure, you are."

"No, really." Roger smothered his cigarette into the slush he sat in and supported himself on his elbows—the strained, white fabric digging into the snow that accumulated on the stoop. "It might not seem like it, but I've always wanted to be closer to you," he lied. "I just...never knew how."

Tim scoffed, the corner of his lips pricking upward into an incredulous smirk. "Yeah, right." He brought the cigarette back to his lips, but before he could connect them, the blonde plucked the white stick out from between his fingers and tossed it down the steps—the snow it settled in sizzling from the displaced embers. The brunette couldn't even think about expressing his anger before Roger dove in and captured him by the lips.

What happened between them could hardly be considered a kiss, for the second their faces touched, the bassist recoiled and shoved the drummer away from him.

"What the fuck, Tim?" Roger shouted, his raised voice falling on deaf ears. All Tim could hear was the pounding of his heart inside his chest; his blood rushing to both his face and groin. His terrified breaths dissipated in the chilled air as quickly as they were formed, the brunette staring at the blonde like he was a ghost.

"You know what? Fuck this," the drummer muttered, shooting up from the steps and losing his footing—his slippery heels like oil on the snow's water. He collapsed into the railing, linking his arms around the ice-cold metal rod for support. His wobbly legs bent outward at the knees, his chest expanding and deflating with each labored inhale and exhale. He dropped his head back and sighed; the few flakes fluttering in the sky melting as they landed on his face.

This was stupid, he thought to himself. I knew it wasn't going to work. I shouldn't have listened to them. Why did I ever listen to them? What do they know?

What do you know? another voice, familiar but not his own, answered.

Roger tipped his chin forward and met the unsettling, distant eyes staring back at him. It was as though Tim simultaneously saw him and saw through him; was looking at him but not. The blonde grimaced at the shiver that trickled down his spine and pulled himself up, finding his balance on the slick steps. The brunette's gaze didn't waver as his captive towered over him, staring at him, determining his next move.

Giving up wasn't an option, and apparently neither was seduction—which Roger had already guessed. What he couldn't guess was what it was that would give them their out, and so he shook his head and asked outright, "Jesus Christ, Tim, what's it going to take?"

The drummer's frustrated inquiry seemed to bring the bassist back to reality. "What?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes to clear his distorted vision.

"What do I need to do to get you to let me go?" the blonde pleaded, his straightforward approach spontaneous and unplanned, inspired by desperation. "Do I need to say that I love you? Let you fuck me? What the hell do you want?"

Upset, Tim furrowed his brows. "I-I don't want any of that." He did.

"But he said you loved me!" Roger screamed, throwing his arms in the air. "That's why you did all of this, isn't it? Isn't it?"

The brunette scoffed. "Fuck off, Roger." He drew his knees into his chest and looked to the abandoned, deserted field beside the complex he called home, wishing Roger hadn't wasted their cigarettes.

"No," the drummer refused, crossing his arms and sitting back into the handrail.

"No?" he repeated in disbelief, shifting his attention back to the rebellious blonde.

"No. I want to hear you say it. Say you love me." He folded his arms over his chest and popped his hip out. "Say you did all this because you love me; because you're jealous of Brian; because you couldn't stop thinking about us in that library, wishing that it was you instead of him. Come on. Say it, just once."

Tim gritted his teeth and picked himself up off the stoop, towering a step above Roger. "I don't have to say anything to you. I'm the one who tells you what to do, remember? Not the other way around."

"You sure about that?" Roger argued, daring to take a step up so that he and the brunette stood eye-to-eye. "Because it seems to me like Nana's the one telling us what to do now, not you."

The bassist's fingers curled into the palms of his numbing hands—his nervously bitten nails piercing through his cold skin. He clenched his jaw, ready to push the blonde down the steps in hopes his head would split open and he'd bleed out, when the door swung open behind them.