He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 41

John glanced down at his lap, where his sweaty, trembling fingers had intertwined. "I remember one time I walked into a room I wasn't supposed to. I didn't know, of course; all these damn rooms look the same when you first come here. But he was in there, and when he saw me, this...this look washed over him." He shook his head. "I'll never forget that look. It was...It was something you'd think you'd only see in horror movies, but I've seen it in Tim's eyes too. Maybe it's hereditary, I don't know.

"Anyways, that man—his dad—he looked at me, and I knew in that instant that I was in trouble. Hell, I couldn't even get one foot out the door before he grabbed me, pulled me into the room, and threw me over the foot of the bed like I wasn't even a human; like I was a doll or something."

Roger watched in stunned silence as John relived the most horrific moment any young man could go through in gruesome detail, from beginning to end. He found it strange, though, that in telling this story, the nineteen-year-old didn't shed a single tear. It wasn't that the story wasn't upsetting to him—his tense body language said it all—but no tears rolled down his cheeks or blurred his vision; perhaps because he'd already cried all the tears he could.

"...so yeah," John finished, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, "I know Tim does some really shitty things, and Nana's no cup of tea either, but at least they're not his dad." He chuckled under his breath, his foot shaking incessantly beneath the table. "I'm actually kind of glad the bastard's dead."

"Me too," was all the blonde could think to say, the awkward response making it difficult for John to continue. It was probably for the best.

The clock in the room struck twelve, its bell weak but still chiming the correct number of times to indicate that they'd reached midnight; the end of one terrible day and the beginning of another. John sighed and lifted himself up out of his chair, crossing the room to Roger and offering him a hand. "Come on, blondie. We should probably call it a night. Nana's here, and she likes to do bed checks. You'll be real sorry if you're not there when she comes knocking on your door."

The drummer hesitated for a moment before slapping his hand into the teenager's, wrapping his fingers around his palm and letting the nineteen-year-old pull him up off the floor.

"You know how to get where you're going?" John checked.

"I'm sure I can find my way," Roger replied, the corner of his lip twitching upward into a grin that lacked its desired confidence.

"Just be careful," the teenager warned, grabbing the blonde by the shoulder and giving him a subtle shake. "You don't want to go wandering into the wrong room, now."

A dry laugh emanated from the back of the drummer's throat as a cheeky grin stretched across the nineteen-year-old's face, the boy making light of his own awful past. John's hand fell to his side, and his feet dragged as he willed himself towards the door. Just before he could leave the room, though, Roger called out, "Hey, you'll be okay?" knowing in the timid smile the teenager shot back over his shoulder that his question was unnecessary.

Nevertheless, John had the decency of assuring him, "I'll be okay." The nineteen-year-old's grin faltered ever so slightly before he stepped out into the hallway, leaving behind the blonde who folded his arms uneasily over his chest and surveyed the room full of dismal and forgotten knickknacks.

He wandered into the dark corner of the room, kneeling down in front of a buried trunk that caught his eye—his knees peeking out from the short hem of his skirt. He stared at the chest curiously, grabbing at its oxidized copper corners and pulling it out from underneath the hoard of busted and dirty records thrown on top of it. There must have been fifty, possibly a hundred of them, sending a cloud of dust in the air as they collapsed and filled the open spot created by the missing trunk.

Roger coughed hard into his elbow, waving his other hand back and forth to clear the polluted air. After the dust settled, his fit subsided. He tugged his sleeve down, pinning the cuff between his fingertips and the palm of his hand, and wiped the top of the trunk clean. Imprinted in the worn, leather exterior was an eroded but legible STAFFELL, and the lid was secured to the body with a surprisingly newer-looking padlock.

The blonde bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder and searching the room for something thin and sharp that he could use to open the lock. As though it was put there purposefully, he saw a bobby pin sitting underneath the table by one of the legs. With his lips twitching at the corners, he crawled across the floor, snagged the barrette, and returned to the chest, inserting the ends into the lock and playing with it, listening for the right clicks.

He hadn't done something like this since he was a kid, using his sister, Clare's bobby pins and getting yelled at by his mother who didn't have enough to pin Clare's hair back one day. Her harsh scolding, usually accompanied by a few smacks to the behind, made little impact on his behavior, fueling it rather than squashing it. Eventually, he grew out of it, but the skills he learned had thankfully stuck with him throughout the years.

Suddenly, the padlock dropped, allowing Roger to tear it out from the hook it looped around and throw open the chest. Hidden inside were an assortment of baby clothes, primarily for girls. He raised a suspicious eyebrow, digging into the collection and pulling out a few of the vintage pieces, the white ones yellowed with age and the colored ones faded to pastels.

The floors creaked behind him, and he froze, as if his lack of movement would make him invisible, but the heavy footsteps padded across the wooden planks slowly, dragging the terrifying presence over to the drummer.

"Why do I always find you doing something you shouldn't be, Roger?" Tim's recognizable, admonishing voice hit his ear, dropping his racing heart into his stomach. The blonde looked up over his shoulder—Tim towering over him with his arms crossed. His hair was wet with snow, his clothes with blood. It was obvious he hadn't cleaned himself after dealing with Freddie's body.

"Whose clothes are these, Tim?" he dared to ask, his wide eyes flickering down towards the miniature dress and jacket he grasped.

The brunette reached down and took the small garments from the blonde's possession, glancing over them reminiscently and replying, "Take a wild guess."

Roger stared at him blankly, trying to determine whether or not he was being serious. When their gazes met, though, it became clear he meant what he said, and so the drummer speculated with a fair amount of uncertainty, "Um...your mum's?"

Tim laughed bitterly. "No, god no. She hated these things." He tossed the dress and coat carelessly into the trunk, sitting down beside the blonde whose skin became freckled with goosebumps as his captor rifled through the garments he hadn't seen or touched in years. "Guess again."

Roger swallowed the lump in his throat, leaning away from the brunette and muttering, "Tim, I don't—"

"Guess. Again," the bassist insisted, stealing a slow, insistent glance at the drummer from out of the corner of his eye.

The blonde heaved a sigh, trying to think of the women in Tim's life that he knew about. There weren't many, in all honesty. As far as Roger was concerned, Tim spent most of his time alone or with him and Brian. In fact, there didn't seem to be many people in his life at all except for—