He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 53

"Well?" Roger urged, his patience wearing thin and his voice returning Tim to the moment, though his mind sought an answer of its own.

"What was confusing about it?" the bassist asked.

The drummer's brows furrowed. "About what?"

"You said it was confusing, what happened that morning," he elaborated, bringing them closer with a couple of cautious steps. The crepuscular glow at the end of the hallway revealed Tim's front fully, allowing Roger to see for the first time the massacre that Neil had stumbled across. It sickened him a bit to know that the blood smeared across his clothes and skin, as well as on Tim's arms and face, was his own.

The blonde's free hand gravitated to his neck, and his fingertips grazed the thin scar that stretched across it. He pulled his hand back and looked down at it, the blood in the creases of his palm and knuckles dried. His gaze drifted up to meet the brunette's, and he muttered in delayed shock, "You sliced my throat."

"And I'll fix it, I will," Tim promised, grabbing onto Roger's biceps and gripping them tight, pulling the two of them together with such harsh force that their chests crashed into one another's, "but first I need you to tell me what was so confus—"

The remaining words dribbled out of the bassist's mouth in utter silence as something started to press against his thigh. Roger squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head back, a resentful groan slipping past his lips at the lack of control he had over himself and the unresolvable contention between his brain and his body. A knowing grin pricked at the corners of Tim's lips, his smile saying everything he wasn't.

"You like me," he whispered excitedly.

"No," Roger bit out sharply, his eyes popping wide open and his gaze sinking back to his captor's. He pushed the two of them apart and shook his head in disagreement, pointing a shaky finger at him. "No, I don't—"

"You like me, Roger," the bassist cut him short, waltzing towards him. The drummer mirrored his footsteps, approaching the moonlit end of the hall backwards. "But you don't want to, is that it?"

"I don't like you, Tim," he mumbled, gritting his teeth and maintaining the space between them. It wasn't until he stepped into the hall perpendicular to the one that Tim found him in that the space began to shrink, the blonde bumping into the wall. The unlit sconce above his right shoulder rattled upon impact, and the temperature in the basement rose as the brunette drew closer.

"You know that's not true," Tim replied, closing Roger in by placing his hands on the wall right above his shoulders. The drummer tipped his head down, tucking his chin into his shoulder, but the bassist forced his attention towards him, jerking his head back with two fingers and tacking on a vile, "And so do I." His hand dropped from the blonde's jaw to his groin, the days-old underwear he wore struggling to contain his erection. A painfully aroused hiss slipped past his lips, his head hitting the wall.

"Let go of my dick, Tim," he grunted, his teeth grinding inside his mouth as he turned a defiant cheek to his captor and tried to push him away.

A dismissive hum buzzed behind the stationary bassist's sly lips, his hand slipping beneath the hem of the underwear and reaching for the drummer's cock. His fingers grazed deftly over the sticky tip, a smirk crawling across his face as Roger shuddered helplessly under his touch. With the blonde's neck exposed, the brunette swept in and pressed his lips against the soft skin beaded with sweat, the bitter but sweet taste filling his mouth.

"I mean it, Tim, I—"

A punched-out moan swallowed the rest of the blonde's plea as Tim began to stroke him, the pressure he applied increasing with each pump. It didn't take long after that for Roger to surrender to the warmth that had spread from his lower stomach to the rest of his body, and before he knew it, he was moving his hands from the brunette's pounding chest up to his face, catching his lips with his and forgetting who he was and where they were and what had led up to this.

Lost in the heat of the moment, neither of them realized the voyeurs peering their heads around the corner, watching them tug at each other's clothes and run their hands through the other's hair, down their sides, and around their backs.

"That cheeky bastard," John whispered over Neil's shoulder, a smirk on his face.

"I told you something was up," the sixteen-year-old whispered back, his eyes locked on the pair and their escalating intimacy.

"I didn't think he'd really do it."

"He's not," Brian chimed in bitterly, standing over the two crouched teenagers and watching with a knot in his stomach as Roger and Tim—oblivious to their audience—peeled themselves away from the wall and slunk back into the dark hallway they came out of, tripping over each other's feet.

"What do you mean 'he's not'?" John wondered aloud, craning his neck to look up at the curly-haired student who stared indignantly down the deserted hall. Neil followed suit, waiting for the explanation that Brian would never give—the guitarist turning on his heel and retreating hotly to the stairs where the sixteen-year-old had found him and shook him awake.

He couldn't bring himself to say it, the fear he spent hours convincing himself was irrational suddenly taking on a very real quality. He didn't want to believe it, that the answer to his question—What aren't you telling me?­—was what he had suspected. How could he not, though, with Roger's hesitant withdrawal and Tim's brash gloating.

Was this his plan all along?

Was this what Roger couldn't tell him?

It couldn't have been, could it?

"John, what was he talk—" Neil, who hadn't been told about their plan, started when the older teenager cut him off, clamping a hand onto his shoulder and pulling him close.

"It doesn't matter what he was talking about, Neil. You know what this means?" He pointed with his free hand down the dark corridor, an excited grin curling at his lips. "It means we might finally get out of here."