He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 60

Tim glowered at the four boys pulling themselves together, watching them through the fringe that hung from his forehead and covered his eyes. He wasn't dead, not yet. The warm blood still gurgled from his chest and stomach with each beat of his heart, trickling down his cold skin and soaking the corset tied around his thin frame. He felt sick—the room being pulled out from underneath him even though he felt the wall behind him and the floor below.

The brunette struggled to keep his eyes from slipping shut, but he refrained long enough to track the small group as they hobbled past him. Roger and Brian led the way with an arm each wrapped around the other—the drummer's resting in the crook of the guitarist's lower back while his laid across the drummer's shoulders. Lagging behind were Neil and John, the nineteen-year-old stumbling with every step and the sixteen-year-old staggering to catch him. Amused by the boys' comedic gait, Tim curled his lips inward, holding back the chuckle that crept up his throat and threatened to escape.

As soon as they stepped over the threshold, their appearance was met with a sardonic, "What's taking you so long?" from down the hall—the question asked by none other than Roger.

"Oh, I'm sorry," John sneered, his response dripping with sarcasm. "It's not like I was shot in the leg or anything."

Tim gritted his teeth and pushed against the wall and floor with his back and feet respectively, using the pressure to pick himself up off the ground. It wasn't easy, knowing that he couldn't make his recovery known to the others, but by the time he was standing on wobbly legs, the boys had already started down the stairs.

Panting, with drops of blood painting the floor by his feet, he stared at his grandmother's corpse, feeling nothing but resentment as he reflected on her short time there and her attempt to take control before her unfortunate downfall—though Tim and the boys would argue that it was a fortunate one.

The brunette drew in a deep, filling breath and peeled himself off the wall, approaching Nana with slow, steady, painful steps.

He dropped to his knees beside her like a ragdoll, avoiding her wide, haunting eyes by focusing on her bottom half, specifically her trousers.

Hesitating for only a second, Tim reached forward and started ripping at the material, separating the leg from the waist. When the threads had finally torn apart—a satisfying tear slicing through the silence that blanketed the abandoned stage—he worked the fabric down her leg and over her foot, throwing it around his waist. He tied the trouser leg directly over the bleeding wound and pulled the two ends together as tightly as he could manage with his trembling hands. A painful whimper slipped past his lips, the material absorbing a fresh, warm gush of blood.

Knowing that time was of the essence, he powered through the pain and went back in for the tie she'd picked out for herself. It was her son's and his father's. Tim never cared much for the man's wardrobe, and so yanked it from her neck and folded it up into a rough square, tucking the accessory into the top of his corset, right over the second bullet hole that miraculously had hit just above his heart.

Tim sat back on his heels and sighed, finally catching Nana's glassy-eyed stare at the ceiling. Again, the only emotion that her lifelessness instilled in him was a deep hatred. Yet he still patted her on the shoulder and muttered, "Don't worry. I'll be back to take care of you...just like you took care of Dad." He pressed his palms into his blood-streaked thighs and stood up, wobbling only a little before finding his center of balance and stumbling out of the room.

Following in his captives' footsteps, he dragged himself to the end of the hall, but instead of traversing the daunting stairs like they had, he stopped at the lift that appeared as though it hadn't seen passengers in over two decades. Unaffected by the shadows consuming the small space or the dust that coated the floor and walls, he pushed the rusty gate to the side and stepped in, snatching the key he kept atop the button panel and inserting into its designated slot, bringing the old lift to life. The light bulb above his head flickered, and the noisy engine that brought the box to its desired floor roared to life.

His finger had just pulled away from the button with a faded G printed on it when the lift shook violently, pulling the bassist down to its floor as it started its rickety descent. Another tremor rattled the lift as it came to a stop, a faint bell chiming above the brunette's head to indicate he'd reached his destination.

Tim rolled his eyes and grabbed for the lift's threshold, using it to hoist himself to his feet. His vision came in and out of focus as he stood there, stagnant, resisting the dizzy spell that wanted so desperately to pass over him and wipe him out for good. He wouldn't—couldn't­—let it, and so pushing through the haziness that obstructed his view, he burst forth from the lift, colliding with the wall across from it. The impact stunned him for only a brief second, his head snapping in the direction of the opened front door.

The winds outside whipped back and forth, waves of snow flying into the exposed foyer and nipping at the boys' bare skin. Already over the threshold and out on the icy steps were Roger and Brian, while John and Neil lingered inside, still making their way down the stairs. The drummer turned his head over his shoulder, a gust of air catching his blonde locks and suspending them mid-air, creating a thin veil over his eyes that—coupled with the pitch-black darkness of the hallway—masked Tim's presence.

Roger tried brushing his hair out of his face but was unsuccessful, calling out to them, "Come on, hurry up!"

"We're trying!" Neil shouted back, him and the other teenager finally setting foot on the foyer's frosty floor. It was in this same, unfortunate moment that Brian fell victim to the snowy steps outside, stealing the blonde's attention from the other two boys and giving the brunette the opportunity he needed but thought would never come.

Tim threw himself forward, running as fast as he could across the entryway and sliding along the wet floor, straight into the front door. He slammed it shut with all his might and fell against it, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath he drew.

Outside, Roger and Brian's heads whipped back, staring at the closed door with wide, fearful eyes. The guitarist sat slumped on the cold steps with the drummer's arms hooked beneath his in a struggling attempt to stand him upright, the latter's feet planted as firmly as they could be on the step above.

It couldn't be, the blonde thought. He was dead, dying. I saw him. He saw me. How did he—

"We need to g-g-go, Roger," Brian stuttered, his teeth chattering and his command attracting the blonde's teary gaze. "Before he...Before he gets us too."

"Are you saying we just l-l-leave them?" he shot back, his brows furrowing together in disbelief. His question was met with silence, but no words needed to be said for Roger to understand what his bandmate was suggesting. "Brian, no. We can't—"

"We need to go," the guitarist stressed, the pair holding one another's gaze before the drummer took one last guilty look at the closed door.

Behind it, Tim smiled at Neil and John, the two frozen in terror as his curling lips parted to reveal teeth painted in a fresh coat of red.

The smile soon faded, and he spat a glob of blood on the floor. A nauseated groan emanated from the back of the sixteen-year-old's throat. "What, did you really think you could get away that easily?"