He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 56

Once again, the overcrowded, single-lantern-lit bathroom filled with silence. Tim bent down and snatched the sequined outfits Nana had thrown at him and Roger, dragging his feet across the dirty tiles. Brian's narrow eyes followed as he passed in front of him, his jaw clenched in indignation.

Their captor stopped before the blonde, and without having to ask, just by holding up the sparkly fabric, Roger started stripping himself of his tattered clothes, letting them fall limply to his ankles.

Piece by piece, the brunette handed him the outfit that matched Brian's and John's. He started with the knickers, the blonde nearly toppling over as he tried to stick his foot through the first leg hole. Once he'd successfully pulled the garment up to his waist, he was handed one of the stockings, which proved to be an even more difficult item to adorn himself with, because as soon as he lifted his foot to insert it in the near see-through sleeve, he'd teeter. It was embarrassing for everyone.

"Jesus Christ, Rog, allow me," the guitarist murmured, disregarding the disapproving look the bassist shot at him as he took the legging into his possession—the rapid gesture sending a jolt of pain through his torso. He hooked his fingers inside the sheer fabric and pulled it apart, holding it out for Roger, similar to how the blonde had held out the frock for him after his bath. The drummer stared cautiously down at the guitarist, knowing he wouldn't be able to hold onto the wounded shoulders for support. "Come on, Rog. What are you waiting for?"

He scanned the room, noticing all the eyes that had gravitated towards him and were anticipating his next move; accusing him of pushing off the inevitable. The quicker he got dressed, the quicker they could go upstairs to the stage; and the quicker they got upstairs to the stage, the quicker they would meet their fate.

The problem was, he wasn't ready to meet his fate. He was only twenty-one years old. There were so many things he never got to do, places he never got to go, people he never got to meet. And what about the rest of them? What were they missing out on? Would they ever find out?

Or would it just be better to die?

Roger suppressed the troubling thought as soon as it arose, placing his hands atop Brian's knees—which weren't in a much better condition than his shoulders—and dipping his foot into the stocking held out for him. The tall, sheer sock suited the drummer much better than it did the guitarist.

Struggling to get his other foot into the other one and dwelling on his multiplying thoughts, he set his bare foot back on the ground, leaned against the tub, and turned to Tim with a frustrated sigh. "You said she lied."

The brunette's forehead crinkled in bewilderment. "What?"

"Nana. You said she lied; that none of us are getting out of here."

"What?" Neil croaked, his hands on his hips as he fought hard to breathe with the broken bones poking at his lungs. Brian glanced at Roger with a suspicious, raised brow, and John crossed his arms.

The boys' captor chuckled nervously, his wide eyes hurling invisible daggers at the blonde. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Roger," he growled through gritted teeth, his grip on the corset in his hands tightening.

"You said the only way any of us are getting out of here is if we kill her," the drummer continued, blind to the visual cues the bassist was expressing. "How do you suppose we do that? What's your plan?"

Tim froze under the undivided attention that had been thrown his way, his gaze flittering from one pair of staring eyes to the next. They stuck out from the shadows like stars against a night sky, except they weren't distant. They were right in his face.

He swallowed the thick lump that formed in his throat and coughed out one more anxious laugh. "I was just joking, Rog. I-I'm not going to kill my nana."

"But you killed Freddie, and he liked you a lot more than your Nana does," the blonde reminded him, his delivery a little harsher than he had meant it to be. "So, what's the difference?"

The brunette hung his head and ran his thumbs over the thin, shiny, plastic disks sewn into the cheap, black fabric in his hands. The room became so quiet that the drip of the tub's faucet had finally hit their ears, keeping time as they all awaited Tim's answer.

Just when it seemed as though he might never offer one, he huffed a soft sigh and dropped the corset to his waist, meeting Roger's gaze and saying, "She's got a gun that my father took from her years ago. He used to use it on the ones that got away, and chances are she's going to use it on us too. If one of us can snag it from her while she's not looking—"

"I'll do it," Brian rattled off, stealing the attention away from Tim. He straightened his slumped back ever so slightly and repeated more confidently, "I'll do it." The guitarist glanced up at the drummer, who worriedly looked at Tim, his baby blues expressing the concern his voice couldn't. You can't let him do it.

Tim smirked, his sinister eyes drifting down to Brian's. "Alright, Bri. You'll do it."

"What? No!" Roger cried out, stepping towards Tim confrontationally. "Tim—" He barely got a step in before being pulled back by his not-so-secret lover.

"I'm doing it, Roger," the curly-haired student asserted softly, a look in his eyes that the blonde couldn't decipher. Was it remorse? Was it resentment? Whatever it was, his heart sank to his stomach as Brian turned his head towards Tim and, lowering his voice, declared, "This ends today."