He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 39

Roger spun around, and Tim shifted his gaze to the figure standing in the threshold—one hand wrapped around the handle of a rolling luggage suitcase while the other clutched a worn-down duffel bag over their shoulder.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh, asking, "Where do you think you're going, Fred?"

"Anywhere but here," Freddie tutted, strutting outside and brushing past the pair with a pompous air in his step. The luggage slammed against each stair it was dragged down, its wheels tracing staggered lines in the thin layer of snow. "I've been humiliated, lied to, betrayed by my best friend..." He stopped at the bottom of the snowy stairs and turned back around, throwing an accusatory finger at the brunette. "If I didn't care about you so goddamn much, Tim, I'd have half a mind to turn you in!"

"You know you can't do that, Fred," he reminded him, a condescending flatness to his voice as he shortened the distance between the two of them, one casual step at a time.

"I know I can't," the dark-haired man sneered, adjusting his grip on the duffel bag filled with as many garments as he could grab in his angered haste, pulling the vintage pieces of clothing from his friend's late mother's closet. "I'm just saying—"

"What's there to say, Freddie?" Tim cut him off, standing so close to him that their visible breaths mixed. "You can't turn me in, and you can't leave." His accomplice's lips parted in preparation of an argument, but the brunette squandered the lost opportunity by rattling off, "And I know we agreed that if you helped me, you could come and go as you please, but after what happened tonight, I don't think I can trust you anymore to do that."

Freddie laughed. "You're not serious."

"You don't think so?" the brunette dared, crossing his arms.

The dark-haired man's eyes flickered up to meet the blonde's, wordlessly asking for his advice. His dissociated gaze wasn't very telling, though, leaving Freddie to make the decision on his own.

Returning his attention to his friend, he swallowed the nervous lump that formed in his throat and muttered, "I'm going, Tim. Good luck with your nan. Tell the boys I'll miss them."

The brunette watched his accomplice show him his back, pulling the borrowed and likely not-to-be-returned luggage down the crooked pavement. Tim didn't know which made him more upset, the blonde's kiss or the dark-haired man's departure. His feelings remained the same, though, a vision of reactionary violence flashing before him.

Once Freddie was out of earshot, trekking the deserted street alone, Tim stuck his hand out and beckoned Roger to get him the shovel leaned against the front of the building. When he didn't hear the crunch of snow beneath his captive's feet, or feel his presence behind him, he turned his head over his shoulder and repeated, "Get me the shovel, Roger."

Snapping out of the daze he'd fallen into and hearing the bassist's order for the first time, the drummer responded with a confused, "What? Why?"

"Because I said so," Tim answered, his jaw tight and his eyes glistening with vengeance. "Now get it for me."

Roger felt uneasy about the command, but an indescribable fear deep inside compelled him down the stairs and into the soft, white blanket that covered the ground and had been previously untouched. Snow clung to his shoes and sunk further into the thin, dirty tights stretched over his legs, chilling him more than he already was.

He pushed through the discomfort and plucked the shovel from the brick wall—its long handle rough with age. His stomach twisted in knots as he gripped the weathered gardening tool in his hand, sensing that it hadn't been and wasn't going to be used as intended.

"Is this r-r-really necessary, Tim?" Roger stammered, glancing back at the brunette—his teeth chattering and his feet buried in the cold snow.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to; it's naïve and a waste of both my time and yours," he muttered, looking in the direction of his escaped friend and making sure he hadn't gone too far.

A bitter taste filled Roger's mouth as he looked back down at the shovel in his hands and debated using it himself, ending things his way, but when his gaze shifted back to the brunette, he knew he couldn't do it. He wasn't a killer, and oddly enough, he hated Brian more than he hated Tim—the former blaming him solely for their winding up here. He didn't think it fair to accuse him of such a crime. After all, he was the one who wanted to keep their affair a secret; it was Brian who brought it to light.

Conflicted by this change of heart, Roger swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and retraced his steps, extending the shovel out to Tim. The bassist snatched it from his trembling grasp with an annoyed roll of his eyes, exchanging no other words with the drummer before following after his accomplice, wielding the shovel like a baseball bat and hitting it in the palm of his hand as he caught up to his unsuspecting friend as quietly and quickly as he could.

The blonde found himself unable to look away, watching with twisted intrigue as the gap between the two shrunk. He stared on as the brunette threw the shovel over his shoulder, waiting until he was close enough to swing at Freddie's skull and scooping out a spew of blood that flew into the air and splattered on the tarmac when the dark-haired man fell forward with a scuffled thud.

Tim kicked his accomplice over, his head cocked to the side in scorn. Roger couldn't decipher the whimpered pleas the dark-haired man tried to make, but he knew they were made in vain—Tim raising the shovel high in the air and striking it down as hard as he could, over and over and over again, until Freddie's face was thoroughly caved in.

The drummer was grateful he lingered by the steps, knowing that if he stood right by Tim's side, looking down at the bloody soup of bones and brains that the dark-haired man's head became, he wouldn't have been able to sleep that night. The gruesome combination of metallic and squelching sounds alone was nightmarish enough.

"Take these, would you?" the brunette ordered, luring the blonde out of his own tormented thoughts. Roger broke his stare with the lifeless body left lying alone in the street and noticed his captor standing in front of him, holding out the luggage suitcase and duffle bag to him. He obligingly took them into his possession, but groaned at the fresh, thick, warm blood that clung to his hands as he grabbed the handles. "I want you to go inside and empty them. You don't have to sort what's in them. A pile anywhere will do." He sighed tiredly, resting his sticky, crimson-coated hands on his hips. "I'll take care of it later."

"Just like you took care of him, right?" Roger murmured, his suppressed voice returning and his eyes flickering up to meet the bassist's. "He was your friend, Tim."

"He was a liability," the brunette begged to differ, pivoting on his heel and trudging back to the mutilated corpse sprawled motionless in the road. Before he could reach it, though, he stopped at the foot of the sidewalk and turned to face the blonde once more, warning, "And so are you if you don't do as I say, so get on it or else that's going to be you next." He nodded towards Freddie.

The blonde shuddered at the threat and adjusted his slick grip on the bags, tucking the duffel under his arm and pulling the luggage behind him as he headed for the front door. Holding it open with his leg, he stole one last look at the brunette, watching as he lifted Freddie up from the ground and dragged him back towards the building—a bright streak of red coloring the snow he slid through, a streak that would be hidden by morning and witnessed by only the murderer and his new accomplice.

Tim felt the drummer's gaze and looked back—his attention startling enough to throw Roger inside, his heart racing as he sprinted up the steps on weak feet. He didn't know where he was going or where he was to empty the bags that had been given to him, but what he did know was that he didn't want to be the next one to piss off Tim. Not after what he just saw.