He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 49

Brian's question hung heavy in the stale basement air, the racing thump of his heartbeat breaking through the silence that filled his ears as he anticipated Roger's reply. However, the drummer didn't even have the chance to find his stolen voice before John returned from his search with Neil, whisking the guitarist away to sew him up and leaving the blonde with the teenager who—with only one word—annoyed him and sent him off down the dark hall.

What little light that seeped through the small, narrow windows situated between the walls and ceiling had vanished into the night, and the boys' stomachs growled with hunger, uncurbed by the cigarettes that were passed around and lit one by one. They'd all gathered in the recreation room—the chest full of girlish hand-me-downs locked up and the avalanche of old vinyl still situated in the trunk's original place, untouched. Roger stared at this with heavy eyelids, the day gone by him and the others in a forgettable blur.

While he sat at the card table with Neil—the sixteen-year-old flicking through an old book about The War of Jenkins' Ear—Tim and John had picked up guitars and were plucking at the grimy strings, the dissonance they experimented with becoming less and less bothersome the closer they came to reaching harmony. Brian watched the pair from in front of the old television with wistful eyes, wishing he too had a guitar in his hands. However, he knew it wouldn't be wise. His stitches were still too fresh, and his wounds susceptible to reopening.

The music came to a sad end when John succumbed to the rawness splayed across the tips of his out-of-practice fingers. By that point, Roger and Neil had wandered off to other parts of the basement, the tormented former finding solitude in the shadows while the naïve latter made a bed for himself in the empty porcelain tub where the blonde and brunette kissed earlier that day.

When John followed after them, smothering the withered fag in the tray balanced on the arm of the old couch they played on and muttering a surprisingly genuine apology to his captor, Tim was so defeated that he didn't even try to convince him to stay. He just let the nineteen-year-old walk out, leaving him alone with the guitarist whose face was buried in his hands. His back was hunched over too, and his eyes had slipped shut in light slumber—the thin, white stick he'd only taken a few drags from dying on the floor next to him. Tim heaved a sigh and rested his guitar in the space that John had left vacant, sinking into the worn-down, velvet cushions and staring at the back of his bandmate's head.

After a long, reflective moment and replacing the cigarette he'd smoked right down to the filter with a new one, he blew a stream of fresh smoke to the side and blurted out, "What was it like?"

The brunette's spontaneous inquiry startled the curly-haired student, who whipped his head over his shoulder and rubbed his tired eyes—the gesture tugging slightly at the sutures. "What was what like?"

Tim dropped his head back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling above him. The exposed pipes that ran up through the house wove in and around each other like some unsolvable maze. He brought the burning white stick to his lips and took a deep breath, holding the smoke inside his cheeks and trying to locate the maze's end before submitting to its impossibility. The smoke that slipped past his pursed lips dissipated into the polluted air as he glanced over at Brian, deadpanning, "Your first kiss with him."

The curly-haired student chuckled—the corner of his mouth pricked upward in disbelief. "You're joking."

"Did I sound like I was joking?" the brunette replied, sitting forward and resting his elbows atop his thighs. His one forearm was draped across his knees, while the other stuck upright—the burning cigarette pinched between his fingers.

Brian stared at Tim with wide eyes, the memory that had been buried for months resurfacing with an aggressive relentlessness.

It was the start of summer. Classes had just wrapped up, and the two bandmates had stopped at a petrol station on their way back from moving Roger's things to Jo's place. They had one more trip to make, but the needle hung dangerously close to the "E" painted on the left side of the gas gauge. Brian manned the pump while Roger flirted with the cashier in hopes of distracting him long enough for him to forget that he had yet to pay for the six-pack he'd taken from the cooler.