He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 68

But they didn't.

When help finally arrived at the snowed-in complex, the three boys were found alive but faring poorly. The sun had risen, casting a warm glow over London, but no amount of sunlight or blankets or reassurances that "everything was going to be okay" could make the teenagers feel better. They dreaded what was to come, knowing what was at stake, and as easy as it was for them to take back their word and testify against Tim in court instead of the other two, the thought turned their stomach in knots. The fear that had been instilled in them and the threats that had lobbed at them again and again pushed the boys into a submissive corner, and so they took to the podium and put on a show that Nana would've been proud of.

They cried. They choked up. They pointed fingers. They convinced the jury that the ones who'd tortured them and forced them to do things that no young boy should ever do weren't Tim or his father or his grandmother, but Roger and Brian. They even convinced the two's families and friends that they were responsible for the horrors these boys went through, and because they couldn't account for where they disappeared to and what they did when they were gone during the year of 1969—how could they without incriminating themselves for something else—they had no defense.

"You think it's funny," Roger muttered dejectedly, tapping the cigarette and littering the concrete floor with more dying embers. "But you spend two years in prison for a crime you didn't commit and tell me if you still think it's funny then." He brought the white stick to his lips and sucked in the dry, smoky air.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport. I brought you something." The brunette kicked the cardboard box that had seen its fair share of use and was tucked under the table closer to the blonde. It hit Roger's foot with a soft thud, drawing his attention.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Why don't you open it and find out?" Tim deadpanned, stealing Roger's apprehensive gaze for a quick second. The blonde shifted his attention back to the box and pinched the cigarette between his lips, freeing up both hands to open the box's lid. Inside, folded up neatly, was a guard's uniform, complete with a dark blue tunic, matching trousers, a peaked cap, and a pair of dress shoes. Roger stared at the contents, trying to make sense of the ensemble.

"Whose are these?"

"Doesn't matter. They're yours now. I got them from a friend."

The blonde looked up at the brunette, confusion glistening in his eyes. "What friend?"

Tim chuckled under his breath, shaking his head in frustration and reaching across the table for the pack of cigarettes. "You always ask so many questions." He flicked the lid up and picked one out for himself. "Can't you just take what I say for what it is and leave it at that?"

"You can't be serious," he retorted. The brunette shrugged, as if he didn't know what the blonde was talking about. Roger scoffed, the flaps of the cardboard box falling in as he sat back and crossed his arms—the smoldering white stick now pinched between his fingers. "The last time I took your word, Tim, I wound up here and lost fucking everything. Why on earth would I take your word again? You don't think I'm that stupid, do you?"

"No, but it's the only way you're getting out of here," Tim answered gravely, lighting his cigarette and breathing in. He held the smoke for a few seconds before pursing his lips and letting it float freely from his mouth. He coughed out the last of it. "My god, these are terrible."

"Who says I want out?"

The brunette laughed. "What, are the old, limp dicks they shove down your throat so irresistible you want to stay?"

"No," Roger murmured, bringing his own cigarette to his mouth and curling his lips around the filtered edge. "I just don't want to leave with you."

"I didn't think you would." Tim leaned forward with one arm folded on the table and the other holding the cigarette up by his face. "But answer me this: Who else is going to come and bail you out?" A steady stream of smoke slipped past the unamused blonde's lips. "Your family disowned you, your girlfriend denies ever knowing you, and your boyfriend's behind bars for life. Not to mention that all of London thinks you're a monster—"

"Yeah, because of you," Roger snapped, kicking the box back to Tim. The brunette parted his lips, but before he could even get a word in, the blonde continued, "No, don't. I don't want to hear whatever lame excuse you have for it. What's done is done, Tim, and I don't know what delusions are swimming through your fucking head these days, but you better shake the one that told you you could just waltz in here after two years and try to take back what you did, because it's not going to happen. I'm not going. If I have to pay the consequences, so do you."

The brunette hummed at the blonde's persistence.

As aggravating as it was, Roger's volition was one of his most attractive qualities, and what Tim had missed most about him.

After he stopped seeing red, with the trial long behind him, Tim realized just how alone he was. No mother, no father, no grandmother, no friends, no projects. His home felt empty; he felt empty. All he had was the voice in his head, and with no one around to talk over it, it was all he heard.

He bruised and bloodied his fists trying to silence it, shattering every mirror and reflective surface in the complex it manifested itself in and scarring his ears in a desperate attempt to evict the voice from his head. He was resourceful, using the glass shards to dig deep into his canals and scraping the crevice raw. None of it worked. He could hurt himself all day long, but no amount of pain would make the distorted version of himself disappear or quiet all it had to say.

Besides, it was right. He was pathetic. He was ashamed of himself. He'd had him, and he let him go. His life was supposed to be better with Roger and Brian apart, but really, it was worse. Not only had Tim succeeded in splitting the pair—ensuring their separation by pinning the most heinous crimes on the latter while painting the former as a mere accomplice—but he also drove a wedge between the blonde and himself; a wedge he needed to close in order to give his life meaning again. After all, everything before Roger didn't make sense. It wasn't until they met that Tim knew what he wanted; what he was meant to do, and it didn't take long for him to realize that, without him, he was nothing.

"You know, I didn't come all this way and do all of this just for you to say no," Tim remarked, Roger's indifference—which was really him working to maintain his composure, the challenge of listening to the voice and staring into the face that was inviting him to fall back into old patterns tempting him to jump out of his seat, leap across the table, and take them both to the ground, where he'd unleash all his built up anger and resentment—compelling him to add, "You just have to trust me—"

"Trust you?" the blonde cut in, a smile of disbelief breaking out across his face. "Hell no. Fuck that." He tapped away the ashy half of the cigarette, bringing the smaller stick back to his lips and getting in before his next drag, "I already told you I don't trust you. That hasn't changed."

"Then don't." The cardboard box slid back to the blonde, scraping across the concrete floor. "But know this is your only chance to get out of here, Rog. If you blow it, that's not going to be on me. I did my part; it's up to you whether or not you do yours."