He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 46

Feeling outside himself, Roger sat like a statue in the tub—his legs drawn into his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins, and his chin nestled in the small valley between his knees. His lifeless eyes were locked on the doorway that remained empty for some time. When Tim finally returned—his soft footsteps correcting Roger's slouch ever so slightly—he set the change of clothes he went to retrieve out in the hall, lacking the courage to deliver them personally; afraid of confronting the blonde.

Truth be told, the drummer feared that confrontation too.

He couldn't explain it, what came over him when the brunette knelt down in front of him and kissed him. While the guilt he felt about his behavior shamed him into regretting what he'd done, the annoying tingle that lingered below his waist—just from thinking about it—urged him to do it again.

Roger closed his eyes and dropped his head forward, a headache blossoming between his brows. The steady drip of the faucet behind him intensified and became the blonde's only focus—the thoughts that clouded his mind too tangled to sort out. It was only when his fingertips began to prune and the water in the bath cooled to an unfavorable temperature that the drummer broke free from his slump and picked himself out of the tub.

Water trickled down his naked limbs and dripped from his damp hair as he trudged over to the sink, grabbing the worn-down towel that hadn't been washed in who knew how long and drying himself off—patting the rough, scratchy fabric under his arms and dragging it up and down his still smooth legs.

The feeling of the towel against his skin was odd but not all that unfamiliar. Roger had run his hands over Jo's hairless legs countless times before and cupped his freshly shaven cheeks almost every other day, but never before had his legs been this smooth. It fascinated him, and while he wasn't confident enough to admit it, he thought it might be something he could get used to.

Tying the towel loosely around his waist, he retrieved his clothes from the hall and slipped back into the room, dropping them all but the new, white button-down to the floor.

After sticking his arms through the sleeves and popping the buttons through their holes, he zipped up the black skirt over his snag-free tights, threw the new striped tie around his neck, and knotted the laces of his trainers—unfortunately the same ones from yesterday and still damp with snow. He'd only made it one step out into the hall when he stopped abruptly in his tracks.

Something didn't feel right; something was missing.

This nagging feeling followed Roger to the bottom of the stairs, and as soon as he raised his foot off the ground for the first step, the realization hit him. His wig.

Turning around, he glanced down the dark corridor to the room he'd escaped to after Tim murdered his best friend in cold blood. The hopelessness that burdened him that night burdened him once more, and again, the question he'd asked that had yet to be answered crossed his mind: who was Tim going to pick as his right-hand man? Or rather, who was going to take Freddie's place?

The blonde would find out soon enough, but a more pressing matter existed in the fact that he'd kept the brunette's grandmother waiting. Already dreading whatever consequence Nana had in store for him, Roger didn't want to implicate himself further by showing up in partial dress, so he raced down the hallway and ducked into the room that instantly reminded him of the unpleasant events of the previous night.

Roger, suppressing the inhibition as best he could, turned around and spotted the pile of hair that hadn't moved an inch from where he left it. The corners of his lips pricked upward into a small, triumphant grin, and he approached the wig as though it were alive and would scatter away at the slightest hint of movement. Carefully, he picked it up off the ground and flipped it over his head, swatting at the stray hairs that tickled his nose and irritated his eyes.

Without any mirrors in the room, he used the old television screen to smooth down the rest of the flyaway strands and tease its fringe back into place. With his fingers as his only comb, he had no choice but to settle for good enough. He left the room with resigned sigh and wandered upstairs.

Still becoming acquainted with the strangely abandoned apartment complex, he peered into every room on the second level until he stumbled upon the dining room where everyone had gathered—Tim included.

The brunette sat opposite his grandmother, the two of them situated at both ends of the table. In between them sat Brian, John, and Neil, the latter by himself with his arms snaked around his torso, his chin tucked into his chest, and the other two across from him. The wide strap of Brian's nightgown hung loosely from his arm, allowing John to stitch up the shoulder wound he neglected to close the night before. The curly-haired student had closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair, breathing through clenched teeth as he tried to stay calm under the untrained surgeon's hands.

It wasn't easy.

"Roger," Nana cooed, drawing everyone's attention to the threshold he stood in. His face flushed of all color. "Take a seat, dear." She gestured to the open spot beside Neil, previously Freddie's. "You're just in time."

The blonde's eyes flickered between Brian and Tim before shifting to Nana, her crooked mouth twisted into a grin. He swallowed hard and let her unwavering gaze guide him to his seat. The chair scraped harshly against the floor as he pulled it out, and the vintage cushion sank as he lowered himself onto it. He glanced over at Neil—the boy instantly averting his gaze to his lap—and noticed him picking at the hem of the apron that Roger, even just by looking at it, could tell was too small. The perplexed drummer raised a suspicious brow but refrained from commenting. Before the thought could even cross his mind, Tim's grandmother stood up and clinked the spoon she held in one hand against the glass in the other.

"Now that you're all here, I'd like to announce something," she started, her evil eyes scanning the small audience she had seated before her. She set her utensils down and lay her hands flat on the table, leaning forward. "This...whatever it is...has gone on for far too long, and I feel it's only fair that we end it in the way that dear old Beth would have seen fit." At this, she looked at her grandson, who flashed her his cheek. Smirking at the discomfort roused by the mention of his departed mother, the old woman stood tall and folded her arms over her chest, divulging, "We're going to end it with a pageant."

Neil lifted his head and squeaked, "A pageant?"

"Yes, a pageant," the old woman affirmed, stepping out from in front of her seat and pacing around the small studio turned dining room. "I mean, why else would Tim dress you up like he has?" She grabbed onto the back of his chair and leaned over his shoulder, a pitiful frown tugging at the corner of her lips. The brunette glared at her, biting back the argument that danced on the tip of his tongue.

Giving him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, Nana pushed herself back and clasped her hands behind her, resuming her slow trot around the table. "Now, it wouldn't be much of a competition with only four of you now, seeing as Freddie is no longer here..." Her ambiguous remark arched Brian's brow alone—the only one not aware of what transpired the night prior. Even Roger doubted that Nana knew the true cause of the dark-haired man's disappearance, but nevertheless, she manipulated the situation in her favor, announcing, "So, to keep it interesting, Tim will be participating as well."