He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 67

"You've got a visitor, blondie," a low voice cut through the clamor that constantly filled the air. Roger—now twenty-three years old—tipped his head in the speaker's direction. Standing outside the small, narrow room he lay in by himself was Sid, a prison guard that had taken a particular interest in him ever since his sentence was decided and Wakefield became his home for the next ten to fifteen years. He had the chance to get out sooner based on his behavior, or if he played the guards' game right. So far, he'd done good on both.

"Who?" the blonde insisted on knowing, remaining unmoved on the cold, hard, metal slab that Wakefield cruelly passed off as a bed.

"Santa Claus," the guard answered with a smirk, plucking the set of keys from his belt loop and flicking through them to find the one belonging to Roger's cell.

He rolled his tired eyes and returned his attention to the ceiling whose cracks he counted to pass the time, distracting himself from the resentful thoughts that plagued his mind. It was hard for him to move past what had happened after he and Brian escaped. Sometimes he even tried to convince himself that it was all just one bad dream; that he still hadn't woken up from his drowse that night at Jo's and that, at any moment, the sound of her footsteps would wake him up.

The footsteps he heard were never hers, though, and when he woke up, it was never on her couch.

The click of the lock and the ear-piercing scrape of the barred, iron door against the concrete floor replaced the jingle of Sid's keys. "Come on, blondie. Don't make me drag you down there."

Roger groaned and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the steel bedstead and holding his arms out in front of him—palms up. Sid entered the confined space and promptly clasped a pair of cuffs around the blonde's wrists, grabbing him by the shoulder of his jumper and throwing him into the hall. He trudged blindly behind the guard, ignoring the jeers the other prisoners tossed his way and dodging the hands that reached for him through the gaps in between the iron bars.

After traversing three flights of stairs and rounding several corners, passing through a handful of secured doors, the two arrived at the common area designated for visitors. The large, uninviting room was mostly empty—visitation not starting for another two hours, not that Roger would know; he hadn't had a single visitor his entire stay—but with the quick nod of Sid's head, the guard responsible for watching over the room pressed a button that sounded a loud buzzer and unlocked the door.

Sid pulled it back, and instantly, Roger's chest grew tight.

Sitting alone in the center of the room at one of the many round tables bolted to the floor was his visitor—one leg crossed over the other under and their fingers drumming an impatient tune on the table's hard, metal top.

"No," Roger muttered, shaking his head and backing nervously into his guard. "No, Sid, I-I don't want to see him. Please, I don't want to see him."

"You've got thirty minutes, blondie," he said, ignoring the inmate's plea and shoving him into the room. Roger spun around just as the door clicked shut, his hands slamming against the flat surface. He leaned forward, looking out the sliver of a window and watching Sid walk away.

"Look at you." He heard behind him. "You haven't changed one bit."

The blonde slowly glared over his shoulder.

"Care for a smoke?" his visitor offered, pulling a box of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of their jean jacket.

Roger clenched his jaw, trying to resist the magnetic pull that emanated from the talismanic carton, but his feet made the decision easy, bringing him to the table. He plopped down on the metal stool across from his visitor—the seat, like the table, also bolted to the ground—and snatched the carton greedily out of their hand. He flicked open the lid and pinched one of the twenty white sticks between his fingers, tossing the box aside and putting the joint between his lips.