He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 62

While it seemed like an eternity, only a handful of minutes had passed before Tim came to. A heavy, repetitious knocking had brought him back from the darkness that swallowed him whole. He blinked a few times, his environment slowly coming into focus—upside down. His gaze shifted from the grimy bottom of the sink to the shower curtain that was bunched together on one side, hiding the shower head whose consistent drip mimicked that of a grandfather clock's ticking. It didn't take long for him to piece together where he was, what had happened, and why he was in so much pain.

He got on his hands and knees, his body growing stiff as he stared into the crimson pool he'd picked himself out of. His eyes then trailed down to his bare stomach sticky with blood. Like the shower head, droplets fell from his grossly mutilated wound, adding to the small, opaque puddle that badly stained the tiles and grout. The nauseating sight threatened him with weakness, but another round of fervent knocking dissuaded him from succumbing to the lapse in consciousness that was bound to ensue.

"For fuck's sake," he grumbled annoyedly, pulling himself to his feet.

Before stepping out of the bathroom, he tied the makeshift bandage he'd gotten rid of back around his waist and adorned himself with the satin robe hanging from the back of the door. He stole one last glance at the mirror, seeing that the reflection staring back at him had its lips curled upward into a malevolent smirk—a smirk that said, You should be dead with the rest of them, Tim. You know it, I know it, so give it up. It's over.

The brunette clenched his jaw, muttering a gritty, "Not until I say so," before dragging himself out into the hall. The pounding on the front door didn't let up even once as Tim made his grueling return trip to the foyer. Had he more energy, he would've been cursing the offender all the way down, but he barely had the strength to open the door, and when he did, he fell right into it; though a more appropriate description would be that he was pushed.

"Jesus Christ, Tim, what the fuck took you so long? I was freezing my arse off out there," the uninvited and unexpected guest rattled off angrily as they shoved their way inside.

"Well, hello to you too, Gordon," the brunette grumbled, closing the door and slumping tiredly against it.

The intruder—now standing in the center of the entryway—rustled the wet snow out of his spiky blonde locks before turning to face the man he hadn't seen in years, resting his gloved hands on his hips and saying, "This place hasn't changed one damn bit, has it?"

Tim, not very much in the mood for conversation or company, bit out, "What brings you by, G?"

"Well, since you asked," he answered, slipping his hand into the pocket of his snow encrusted parka. "I got this letter from Neil a couple weeks back." He extracted the piece of correspondence in question, the sheet of paper folded unevenly into fourths and wrinkled at the edges. "'Says you've been letting him stay here with you and that I should come over sometime and hang out like we used to." The blonde stowed it away before the brunette could get a better look at it, explaining, "You know, I would've come by sooner, but this term at Warwick has really put me through the bloody ringer." He chuckled to himself, a smirk tweaking the corner of his bluish lips upward. "I don't know how you do it."

The brunette stared blankly at the blonde, hung up on and greatly disturbed by the fact that Neil had sent out a letter behind his back. Not only did he have to swipe a pen and paper, but he also had to acquire a stamp and sneak out to the post office to send it—for the mail stopped arriving at the flat complex years ago—and he did this all under Tim's nose, without him ever catching wind of it. Had he really been that distracted with Brian and Roger that he made the impression that he could be duped so easily?

You say that like you didn't know what you were doing.

"Tim?" Gordon asked, noticing the distant look that had washed over his face.

The man in question's cloudy gaze shifted to his guest, clearing up within a few blinks. "I'm sorry, what did you say you were here for?"

"Neil," he muttered, going for his pocket for a second time. "He sent me a letter saying we should all hang out."

"But...I...I don't know what you're talking about," Tim stammered, his skin pale and a brownish red stain growing above the robe's left breast. His suddenly crossed arms kept it out of sight.

"How could you not know what I'm talking about? He said he's been staying with you. You know, the little bugger we used to—"

"I know who he is," Tim snapped, his harshness arching Gordon's brow in suspicion. The brunette's mouth went dry, realizing that it wasn't the letter's recipient his anger was directed at, but the sender. He cleared his throat and explained timidly, "I just...I don't know why he told you that. He's not here, and I haven't seen him since...since the last time we went out."

A tense silence filled the air, Neil's older classmate trying to make sense of the contradictory nature of the letter's contents and the bassist's claim. Finally, clearing his throat, he wondered aloud, "Then why the hell would he send me this?"

Tim shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I mean, you knew how he was. He probably just wanted to see you again and didn't know how else to get your attention."

Gordon hummed in consideration, but in the pit of his stomach sat an uneasy feeling.