He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 51

Another day had gone by, the frustrated and tired boys keeping largely to themselves. The air was pungent with smoke, and their gnawing hunger had been psychosomatically quenched by the water they lapped at directly from the bathroom sink's faucet, as well as the tub's. Thankfully, Nana wasn't so cruel as to deny them the small pleasure in that.

A couple attempts were made throughout the day to break out, but all were met with failure. Neil's desperate pleas to Nana fell upon deaf ears, and Roger's tinkering with the lock did nothing but add a disappointing pattern of clicks to the noises that were slowly driving the young men insane. John had retraced his steps too many times over in trying to find that exit he still believed existed, despite Tim's claim that it didn't, and—in no condition to exert himself—Brian sat at the bottom of the steps, staring longingly at the closed door as if looking at it long enough would magically get it to open.

Resigned to what they felt was their doomed fate, the boys prepared themselves for another sleepless night. John claimed the tub before Neil could, leaving the sixteen-year-old to the couch in the recreation room. (He'd entered that argument a losing man.) Meanwhile, Brian had rested his head against the wall and dozed off to temporarily relieve himself of the pain that spread through his shoulders, chest, and arms.

Deep in the basement, in a corner so dark that the walls, ceiling, and floor were indiscernible from one another, Roger slumped with his legs extended across the hall, prepared to trip anyone that dared to cross him. He mindlessly flicked the cap of an old-fashioned lighter back and forth, sparking a flame and then squashing it, over and over again until, suddenly, another body appeared beside his. Frightened by the pair of eyes he met with his own, he dropped the lighter and scrambled to his feet, the flame still burning in the spot he'd quickly vacated.

"What the fuck, Tim?" Roger shouted, his raised voice echoing through the empty, shadow-ridden maze of halls. "Where the hell did you—"

The brunette lunged at the blonde and clamped a free hand over his mouth—the other hidden behind his back, holding something Roger couldn't see. Their bodies slammed back into the wall together, and the silence that befell them vanquished the rest of his sentence into oblivion. The soft glow of the lighter's flame by their entangled feet cast ominous shadows on their faces, heightening the tension as they stared at one another with equally wide eyes, listening for any signs of stirring or heavy footsteps above them.

When all seemed undisturbed, Tim lowered his damp palm down to his side and took a step back, returning the space between them and drying his hand on his pant leg. Roger cautiously followed suit, wiping his freed mouth with the back of his wrist and grumbling, "I hate when you do that."

"I hate when you do a lot of things," the brunette replied, his grip on the concealed item tightening.

The blonde snickered, averting his gaze to the lighter he'd been playing with. Aware that any sudden movements might get him thrown back into the wall again, he resisted the impulse to bend down and grab it, and instead asked softly, "What'd you come back here for, Tim?"

The brunette swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, croaking out a timid, "I need to know what it meant."

Roger's brows furrowed, his head lifting. "What?"

"I need to know what that was in the bathroom yesterday morning," he elaborated, his voice low and serious. A disembodied "I do too" sounded in his captive's ears, though he would never know. "Did they put you up to it?"

The drummer scoffed. "Did who put me—"

"I really don't want to have to do to you what I did to Freddie, Rog," Tim explained, pulling out the hollowed bodied saw he held behind his back and twisting it back and forth. A look of admiration, or was it reminiscence, glimmered in his eyes. He started losing himself in the brilliance of the tool that his father once used, and it was only when Roger folded his arms over his chest and Tim caught the movement out of the corner of his eye that he was reminded of the present situation. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to him. "So just tell me. Was it all an act, or did you actually mean it?"

A disbelieving chuckle slipped past the blonde's curled lips, the brunette's threat lacking in conviction and his question left unanswered as thoughts of what he planned to do with the saw crossed his captive's mind.

"What's so funny?" he demanded to know, his hold on the saw growing impossibly tighter.

Roger tried to suppress the smile that stretched across his face but couldn't, his eyes drifting from the blade that glistened in the incandescence of the flame to the pair of eyes locked on his. "Is that supposed to scare me? I mean, really, Tim, what do you think you're going to do with that? Cut my arms off? My legs? My head?"

The bassist took a swift step forward, eliminating the space between them and bringing the saw to the drummer's neck. Instinctively, the drummer tipped his head back, the grin wiped straight off his face and the blade resting right below his Adam's apple—its sharp teeth poking lightly into his skin. "Maybe, or maybe I'll slit your throat. Perhaps your ankles. Keep it up, and I might do both."

"You wouldn't dare," Roger sneered, staring at his captor over the tip of his nose.

"Try me," Tim growled, pressing the blade deeper into his skin, the thin dermal layer threatening to split open.

There was a clock down the hall whose tick appeared to grow louder, faster, matching the beat of the blonde's heart as it pounded against his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trailed down the side of his face, outlining his cheek, jaw, and chin.

"Tell me, Roger," the bassist insisted, the serrated edge of the saw shaking ever so slightly against the arteries that pumped strongly and at twice the usual speed underneath it. "Now."

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Tim!" the blonde cried, the blade making it difficult for him to swallow the lump that formed in his throat. "I don't know what happened between us that morning. I just...you were...everything was..."

"Everything was what?" Tim urged, repeating himself more tersely when his question was met with deafening silence. "Was what?"

"Confusing!" the blonde finally yelled out, the abrupt answer causing the brunette to draw the saw back, nicking his captive's throat in the process. Blood trickled from the cut in narrow streams, staining the front of the white button-down that wasn't very white anymore. Despite the cut being superficial, Roger still grabbed at his neck as though it were deeper, looking at his captor with big eyes and lips parted in shock.

"Oh my god," Tim gasped, dropping the saw and cupping his hands over his mouth. The tool clattered on the ground, extinguishing the flame that provided the only source of light in the hallway.