He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 43

Roger trudged through the dark halls like a zombie, dragging his feet and letting his arms dangle by his sides as he tried to make sense of all he saw, all he learned, and all he felt that day. The scattered thoughts consumed him, distracted him—his body drawn forward by sheer necessity. With his mind elsewhere, he found himself back outside, standing at the top of the stoop instead of going to bed like Tim told him to.

His black trainers absorbed the cold from the icy slush they were buried in, while his clothes seemed to have gained a magnetic quality, attracting the snowflakes falling from the sky. He stared out at the street with snow clinging to his eyelashes, recollecting the violent scene he witnessed no more than an hour or two ago.

That could've been me, the blonde thought, lowering himself onto the steps and resting his chin in his numb hands. Or Brian.

Silence permeated the chilly air and allowed him to reflect on how, before all this, he and the guitarist couldn't get enough of each other, counting down the minutes until they could meet up and escape to the world they made for themselves in dark alleyways and small closets, or really anywhere they could fool around without catching attention. Now they met with hostility, with Brian using Roger's own words against him and the drummer outwardly resentful of the guitarist for placing the blame only on him.

The way the blonde saw it, there was no one person at fault here. Both his proclivity to charm his way through life and the curly-haired student's need to attest to their affair played equal roles in their winding up in this situation, and if Brian was going to throw an accusatory finger his way, Roger harbored no restraint in throwing one right back.

It seemed as though, after reuniting in the basement, they were different people, and perhaps it was because they were. It had only been a matter of days, but with each passing interaction, Roger felt less and less like himself. Maybe that's the point, he wondered, looking down at the skirt draped over his thighs and picking at the damp fabric.

An overwhelmed groan emanated from the back of Roger's throat, and he buried his face in the cold palms of his hands. It was exhausting, trying to make sense of it all, and as the snow continued to accumulate on the ground and the blonde's back, his posture slumped and the distance between his head and the wet stone beneath him shrinking. However, before he could lie down, close his eyes, and drift off into some much-needed sleep, the door behind him swung inward, startling him upright and vanquishing the sleepy daze that tempted him so.

Roger whipped his head over his shoulder, pressing his arm against his forehead as a makeshift visor and squinting his eyes to see through light that shimmered around the silhouette standing tall behind him. While the glow from inside gave his finder an angelic appearance, they sadly were no angel, cocking their gray-haired head to the side and sneering in that sickly sweet, deceptive voice, "There you are, dear."

The old woman he'd been warned about stepped out into the brisk night, wrapping her taloned hand around his arm—her nails digging into his skin—and yanking him off the stoop. "I've been looking all over for you." His feet slid out from underneath him as she tossed him inside, the blonde tripping over the threshold—his hands and knees catching him on the hard floor.

Sharp pain shot through his stiffened limbs, but with trembling breaths and a racing heart, he remained still, listening carefully to the echoing footsteps that approached him. He flinched at the slam of the door that shook the entryway, and tensed up at the menacing presence that suddenly appeared beside him.

"Why aren't you in bed, darling?" Nana asked, crouched next to the blonde with her head tilted to the side in hopes of catching a glimpse of that pretty face of his, though it wasn't very pretty anymore. The makeup he'd been adorned with ran down his cheeks like watercolor, a result of the tears that flowed from his eyes, the sweat that dripped down from his hair—which was a mess within itself, clinging to his forehead and jawline—and the snowflakes that melted against his frostbitten skin.

"I—" Roger tried to answer, daring to meet her inimical gaze out of the corner of his eye. However, before he could utter another syllable, the old woman interrupted him.

"Let me rephrase," she said, pressing her finger wrinkled with age against his parted lips. "You shouldn't still be up, hon, nor should you be outside."

"I-I'm sorry," the blonde muttered under his breath, his lips quivering under her hold. "It-It won't happen again."

"You're bloody right it won't," Nana agreed, straightening her legs and towering over him with hands on her hips and a contemplative look in her narrowed eyes. Then, without warning, she swung her leg back and gave a swift, powerful kick to Roger's side that no woman her age should have been able to give. The blonde toppled over and grunted in pain, instinctively curling inward on himself and biting back the vile string of words that longed to slip past his lips.

"Don't be pathetic, dear. Pick yourself up," the old woman demanded. When her grandson's captive didn't, she snapped her fingers at him and shouted, "Now!" nodding towards the staircase.

Shooting an exasperated glare her way, the blonde brought himself to his feet—slowly and in pain. He gritted his teeth and tried his best to stand straight, but as soon as she shoved him towards the steps with one hand, his shoulders fell and he was back to dragging himself through the halls.

"To the right," Nana instructed as the pair ventured down the dark hall of the third floor. The blonde found this cue strange, seeing as the room she wanted him to go to sat opposite the room with the light on. He knew better than to argue, though, wary of drawing out this rotten day more than he already had.

Standing outside the shadow-consumed room, Roger waited for Nana to enter and turn on what turned out to be a free-hanging lightbulb, its source of power coming not from a switch, but from a dangling chain that had been extended with a thin string. Instantly, he recognized this as a room different from the one Tim had first brought him to. Of course, the window was boarded up, but instead of the double bed they shared that night, there was only a single. No TV buzzed on the dresser; there was no dresser. Nor was there a life-size doll occupying the corner. The only piece of furniture in the room, aside from the bedframe and mattress, was an armoire with chains secured around the handles to prevent anyone from opening its doors.

Curiosity naturally washed over Roger, but with his desire to investigate came Tim's reminder that, "You really shouldn't go into things you're not supposed to, Rog . . . Things are put away for a reason, and if there's a lock, it means someone doesn't want you going in there." But why? What's he hiding in here?