He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 59

The chance for either of them to figure it out was stolen by another shot hitting their ears, followed by another. Tim bolted out of the room, pounding up the stairs and leaving Roger to pick himself up out of the tub—which was no easy feat in his condition.

First, he had to bring his legs into the tub, and while he hadn't realized it talking to Tim, his limbs had grown numb. They stung as he grabbed onto them and pulled them in, groaning as he contorted himself into a position where he was able to throw himself over the side. His heaving chest rested against the cold porcelain edge of the bath, and his arms dangled limply over the side.

Catching his stolen breath, his ears pricked up at the sound of another gunshot, followed by the muffled shouting of either its targets or its shooter—the blonde couldn't tell. All he knew was that he needed to get up there before it was too late. He gathered as much strength as he could and hoisted himself over the edge—knocking the wind out of his lungs and bouncing a dull thud off the dark walls as he collided with the floor.

He lay there panting with his eyes closed, listening to the static of the radio in the recreation room. It reminded him of when he would toy with the dials on Brian's radio while they were together, searching for something better to fuck to than the talk show that the curly-haired student liked to listen to.

"It keeps me informed," he explained.

"It puts me to sleep," Roger had replied before coming across a station playing Bowie's newest single and turning the volume up loud enough to drown out their voices as the drummer jumped at the guitarist, pushing him against the mattress and capturing his lips with his.

As intimate as they had gotten, Roger couldn't imagine having those small, memorable moments with Tim. He just wasn't that type of guy.

He was the kind of guy who drugs and tortures his friends because he's jealous of them, and then convinces them to murder his grandmother so she doesn't kill them first.

Roger lifted his head with much difficulty, his tired eyes gazing longingly at the hallway. He just had to pick himself up, pull himself up the stairs, and trudge through the halls to find his way to the others.

He could already see himself stumbling across the room, pushing in the door to reveal the tragic scene with the boys huddled on the stage, looking down at Nana in a mixture of disbelief and shock as she lay on the floor—four red stains blossoming on the front of her suit jacket and a crimson puddle spreading out from underneath her. Brian's stiff arms would stick out in front of him, the old woman's gun clutched tightly in his trembling hands. Frozen in place with him would be Neil, the sixteen-year-old hiding behind John who would try to pull away from him, drawn towards the edge of the stage to get a closer look at the body; to make sure she was actually dead even though Tim was already kneeling beside her, his stockings absorbing her spilled blood.

"Is she dead?" the blonde would ask, all eyes finding their way to him.

"She's dead," Tim would confirm, his words lifting the weight that bore down on their shoulders and whisking away the shadows that consumed the walls and corners. The air would feel lighter, and the room brighter.

He could see it, feel it.

The end of one era and the start of another was so close, yet so far away as the door leading out of the bathroom made sure to remind him. What was just a few rushed paces for Tim was a strenuous army crawl for Roger, whose arms and legs hugged the floor like they never wanted to let it go, ignoring the direness of the situation that escalated with another gunshot.

"Five," the blonde whispered, dropping his head against the cold floor once more and closing his eyes for barely a second before he realized what that meant. "Five?" he repeated, the sudden surge of adrenaline ripping his eyes open and plucking his poor, sore body up off the floor like a marionette. Using the tub, then the sink, and finally the walls for support, Roger dragged himself out of the room and climbed up the treacherous steps that stretched out farther than before.

His feet scraped across the neglected wooden floors like dead weights, and his shoulders brushed against the peeling wallpaper as though it were magnetic. He let the growing clamor of raised voices guide him to the stage, the invisible strings attached to his limbs leading him blindly through the dark and indistinguishable halls.

As he ventured further and further into the house, his vision began to blur, and a sick feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he was certain that at any moment, his legs would buckle and abandon him somewhere in the complex where no one would find him. He'd just lay there, helpless, rotting away until there was nothing left, or until Tim came across him and got rid of him himself.

It wouldn't get to that point, though, for when Roger fell to his knees, it was right outside the room where everyone was expected to be—the door left open. Laying in the center of the room, bleeding out, was Nana. A fresh wound stood out on her forehead, streams of blood trickling down her face and staining her silver hair. Another bullet had torn through her shoulder. It was the first one to hit her, but not the first to leave the gun. That one flew through John's shin—the nineteen-year-old curled up in a ball against the stage, rocking back and forth and hugging his injured leg with bloodied hands. A trail of crimson spatter marked his undoubtedly painful hobble from where he'd been shot to where he'd taken reprieve.

On his hands and knees at the edge of the stage was Brian, the gun trembling in a shaky hand that was aimed at the threshold. Neil also stood on the stage but hid to the side, tucked behind a curtain, his bony fingers holding back the thick velvet so he could peer out into the butchered audience, where accompanying his grandmother was Tim.

Roger had to crawl into the room to see him slumped against the doorway, blood seeping from the bullet holes placed just above the breast of his corset and then straight through the middle. His head fell to the side at the same time Brian lowered the gun, throwing the frightened blonde back into the door.

The brunette coughed and smiled, his teeth coated in a sheer, red gloss. "Everyone's gonna know," he croaked, sending himself into another coughing fit that ended with his head falling forward, a string of blood dripping from his lip and pooling in his lap.

Roger scrambled to his feet, staggering over to the stage and tripping into it—his eyes refusing to leave his dying captor as the hauntingly familiar words rang in his ears. With his newly bandaged hands curled over the ledge and his legs struggling to keep him standing, he broke his stare and turned his head to Brian, who looked down at him with tears wavering in his bloodshot eyes.

"It's over?"

"It's over."