He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 66

The duffel bag scraped across the old floorboards as the brunette lugged it through the corridor, brought it down in the rickety elevator, and dragged it out back. It hit each and every icy step with a dull, punctuated thud, and dug a deep path in the snow on its way to the dumpster—the same one where Freddie's body still lay, immaculately preserved by the cold.

Tim, short of breath, threw the lid open and glanced down at his lifeless, frozen friend. He frowned and crossed his arms atop the dumpster's edge, resting his chin on his forearm. The incessant banging and shouting that once emanated from the shed had since fallen silent. The boys behind the clamor had exhausted themselves out—their injuries, the lack of clothing, and the bone-chilling air slipping through the cracks of the shed not doing them any favors.

"I wish you hadn't tried to leave, Fred," Tim murmured, snow drifting through the air and clinging to the disheveled hair atop his head. "I really could've used your help with this."

He paused, as though giving the deceased man an opportunity to respond. However, when his sentiment went unanswered, he took a step back from the dumpster and turned towards the duffel. He stared at it resentfully, his body refusing to do the work while the voice in his head bitterly reminded him that he didn't have a choice.

So, with an exasperated grunt, Tim wrapped his arms around the heavy duffel and rolled it into the dumpster—the bag pinning the other corpse's arm and shoulder beneath its weight. The brunette flipped the lid back down and spun around, raising a protective hand to his forehead and squinting his eyes to spot the lone shed standing small across the yard. He considered for a moment trudging through the snow and bringing his punished captives inside with him, but his plan benefitted from their imprisonment; from their exposure to the unforgiving elements that the deteriorating shed failed to protect them from.

The brunette tore his attention away from the shed and shifted it to the ominous complex towering over him. He'd lived there his whole life, and even as a child, he had never felt so inferior to it as he did then. Perhaps it was because he knew that, as soon as he went inside and made his way to the flat he claimed as his own, picking up the phone from the receiver and dialing those three magic digits, the building was all that would be left of him, of his family, of their legacy—as tarnished as it may be.

There were so many stories written on its decaying walls, and even more secrets hidden within them—terrible, awful stories and secrets, but they were theirs and theirs alone. It was the last place his mother saw; the last place his grandmother saw, and it would've been the last place he saw too if he didn't see to it that his efforts in trying to create something beautiful weren't all in vain. He grew up believing that he was meant to change the world, like his mother wanted him to, and he wasn't going to let anything stop him. Especially not a cowardly guitarist and an easily swayed drummer.

Tim shivered at the chilling thought and dragged himself inside, a forceful gust whipping the door shut behind him. He flinched and stared at it with wide eyes, wondering if it was the wind or perhaps something else; something trying to keep him in.

Putting down his growing suspicions to paranoia, he retreated to his flat. He flicked the light switch closest to the door and illuminated the still-cluttered living area, frowning at the open spot on the couch where Roger sat, reading over the lyrics to the new song he'd been working on.

Who're they even about?

Oh, just an old friend.

It seemed so long ago, that interaction between them.

What day even is it? the brunette wondered, crossing the littered floor to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him to reveal the calendar hanging in the center of it, displaying the month of December under a picture of a scenic landscape. He brought his finger to the paper curled at the edges and yellowed from the nicotine-polluted air and skimmed over all the X's he had slashed the numbers with.

He reached the end of the month and realized that every single day had been crossed out. December was over, and so was 1969. 1970 was here, and god knew how many days in they were. Tim supposed it didn't really matter. What mattered was that it was a new year; a new decade, and no one's lives were ever going to be the same. For that, Tim smirked.

The brunette turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks, catching a gut-wrenching glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall beside his dresser. He was covered in blood from head to toe, his jeans and button-down splattered in crimson, and his hair was an absolute mess—the snow that clung to it since melted and the brittle strands sticking out in all sorts of directions. Bags sat prominently beneath his eyes, and his fingers were still discolored and numb from the cold temperatures he hadn't been properly dressed for outside. He looked terrible and felt even worse. A nice, hot bath would undoubtedly resolve both of those issues, cleansing him of the day that undoubtedly got out of hand, but his dark reflection shook its head in disapproval.

No one's gonna believe you were tortured if they find you with washed, dried, and styled hair and a fresh set of clothes, now, will they?

"I guess not," the brunette grumbled, returning to the main living area and ignoring the remnants of the song he'd been trying to show Roger before his first and unsuccessful attempt at drugging him. The sheets that contained the lyrics were torn apart, the tattered strips spread out across the coffee table and surrounding floor. His guitar lay with them—originally propped up against the arm of the couch but having tipped over at some point in time when the brunette was preoccupied elsewhere.

The pathetic scene served as a sort of memorial for his friendship with Roger and Brian; for what could've been but never would be. He didn't care to mourn for things lost, though. He only cared about exacting revenge.

My life was going to be better, he wrote.

And it was. It was going to be better.

The brunette turned away from the shredded paper and neglected instrument and slipped into the kitchen, plucking the phone off its receiver attached to the wall and pinning it between his ear and shoulder. He stuck his finger inside one of the ten holes and turned the dial until it couldn't be turned any more, releasing it and letting it fall back into place. He repeated the gesture twice more and listened to the trill resounding from the other end.

As he waited for an answer, he pressed his back against the wall and tangled the cord around his index finger. His eyes scanned over the dismal living situation before landing on the crushed box of cigarettes peeking out from underneath the hoard of dirty pots and pans still piled on the counter. He pulled the pack out—creating a minor avalanche that only resulted in a few pots tumbling to the floor with a clamorous clatter—and flicked the paper lid back. To his relief, there was a single joint left. He grinned and extracted the white stick, discarding the carton and popping it in between his lips. He peeled away from the wall in search of a lighter, but before he could get far—the cord stretching with him—a voice resonated in the speaker.

"999, what's your emergency?"

He pinched the cigarette and pulled away from his mouth, answering, "Hi, yes." He sunk into the open spot on the couch and tried to hide the smile in his voice as he explained in a factitiously nervous stutter, "I-I've been shot, and I...I think my friend has too."