Title : Clandestine

Author : shinobi

Fandom : Linkin Park

Genre : Angst/Drama

Pairing : C/P

Rating : NC17

Summery : [multichapter] Chester wishes he could go back and change the things that went wrong, erase the mistakes, see the things he never noticed and amend the errors he made. Only he can’t and he’s got to live with the fatal consequences. Forever.

A/N : Okay this is an act of bravery on my part. I started writing this in OCTOBER last year and if it’s a little rusty then that’s the reason why. I’ve tweaked and edited it anally for the past day and now I’m posting it with the ever present warning that updates could be slow. Many thanks to Sandy and Halina to whom I asked for the read-throughs when this was my baby and it was still called ’wish’. I’d love feedback, I really would… Enjoy!

[Chapter One]

[November 1999]

“Chester?”

I groaned and rolled onto my side, cursing loudly when my elbow connected with the side of my bunk and a sharp jolt of pain shot through my inappropriately named funny bone.

“Shit. Fuck. Ouch.”

“Chester are you coming out today? This year perhaps?”

“Alright, alright,” I growled, rubbing my stinging arm as I navigated my sleepy body out of the cramped confines of the makeshift bed in the back of a clapped out van that I had found myself calling home for the past few weeks. After untangling myself from my twisted sheets and pulling on what looked like one of my shirts, I stood in the small aisle that ran between either wall of cupboards, face to face with the owner of the voice that had broken into my deep sleep.

Mike.

He looked frustrated, pissed off, annoyed perhaps that it had been him who’d had to come back to the RV to tell me that sound check was probably less than an hour away and I should get my lazy self out of bed. I didn’t blame him for looking that way. I would have more than likely held the same look of desperation had I been in his current role. Everyone knew I was not a morning person.

Mike scratched his head, cleared his throat and muttered something about me getting dressed in

something warm because subzero temperatures had graced the world outside. In reply I nodded and scanned the floor for my bag as he headed out to the kitchen area, stopping briefly to pick something up from the table.

Somehow, I managed to get dressed in record time, swiftly pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a thick black hoody that I’d found in a ball on the floor. I wasn’t sure who it actually belonged to, just thankful for the fact that it was of a warm and snugly texture and it smelt of washing powder mixed with a faint scent of weed. Which led me to believe it was Mike’s. As did the expression on his face when I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder and stood before him in the kitchen where he was looking at me with a slight smirk.

“Out of the extensive wardrobe you own, you still find it necessary to wear my clothes,” he grinned a little, his previously darker mood seeming to have lifted.

“Ahh but that’s the highest of compliments,” I told him jokingly, watching as he took a hit from a joint I’d only just noticed was grasped in between his slender fingers. The reason for his lift in mood becoming apparent.

“Bullshit! It was the first thing you found, more like!”

“Yeah, and that,” I nodded with a smile.

He chuckled and shook his head, nudging me with his elbow.

“Come on, we’ll be late. Rocky is in one hell of a bad mood this afternoon,” he sighed, referring to the guy who had appointed himself as our manager. He was a friend of a friend of my Fathers and claimed to know all there was to know in the music business. I’d yet failed to see his knowledge. He was mid forties, a little extravagant and one of those people who’s mood swings came and went more than those of a teenage girl.

“Great,” I sighed, following Mike through the somewhat cluttered van, “What are we supposed to have done wrong today?” I asked him, climbing over what looked like a pile of dirty laundry before following Mike down the steps of the van.

“Fuck knows,” he replied, briefly taking a long deep drag from his joint before he attempted to lock the door.

I watched in amusement for a few seconds before I dropped my bag to the floor. Sure, high Mike meant happy Mike, which was good. It also meant slightly unable to lock doors Mike. Which wasn’t so good because he was right, it was absolutely freezing cold and the longer he fumbled about with the Yale lock, the colder my balls were getting.

In the end I gently nudged him out of the way and locked the door myself, pocketing the keys in my bag before I slung it back over my shoulder and we began to make our way across the frost covered parking lot. Our pace was slow and I kept my eyes glued to the concrete below me which was covered in a fine sprinkling of ice, because I had a tendency of slipping on my ass as soon as winter came around and I was anywhere near a patch of ice. Unfortunately Mike knew this as he’d been with me the time I’d skidded halfway across a road after my battered converse shoes had made contact with a patch of black ice. I’d broken my arm and had to have stitches above my right eye. It had only been about a year ago and the memory was still sore. More so on my ego than anything else.

That’s probably why Mike kept nudging me and I kept growling and swearing at him. We no doubt looked a bit of an odd sight as I gingerly tiptoed along and Mike alternated between taking a hit of his smoke and nudging me in the side with his bony elbow. If anyone hadn’t had seen us emerging from our slightly run down and dusty RV which housed the rest of the band and Rocky and had ‘Hybrid Theory : Master Bay Tour here we fucking come’ etched into the dirt on the side they might have thought we were completely knackers. But the fact that we had emerged from that camper-van-come-home and were in a band who had been touring seedy bars and clubs for god knows how long seemed to somehow justify the way we were staggering along; the way we both looked like we’d just come out of some bad punk rock film. Mike’s hair was bright red with blue streaks weaving through it, his right eye was black from an incident he’d had with his guitar the night before and putting it politely he looked like he could do with a good wash. My unkempt Mohawk was flapping about in the wind, dyed a garish pink colour and matted with gel and remnants of the washing up liquid that Mike had used to wash it with the other day. I stank of cigarettes and cheap liqueur and the black nail polish that adorned my bitten down nails was flaking away; chipping off and fading very much like I felt on that bitterly cold morning.

“Hey.”

Stopping my audacious thoughts, the sound of Mike’s voice made me look up and I realised that I’d conquered the ice rink and we were now safely standing before the back door of the venue we were playing tonight. One of the panes of glass was smashed. Another above it was missing and had been replaced with a flimsy looking piece of plywood. Sellotaped to it was a ripped poster which read in bold, black type : ‘For one night only! Top rock gods ‘Killertricks’ live at the basement! With support act ‘High Bird Theories’Doors open eight pm.

I sighed and pushed the door open. It was going to be one of those days.

*

“Mike! You’re the one that was fucking moaning about Mr. Bennington here not gracing us with his presence on the one time we actually have a decent amount of sound check time allocated to us and then you come back stoned? What the fuck is wrong with you…”

I sat on the edge of the stage, my feet swinging to and fro as Brad Delson, the biggest woman in the world and another sixth of the band I was in continued his screaming. I half watched as he carried on shouting at Mike, waving his hands about in the air, edging towards my best friend like some guitar wielding maniac.

I took a drag of my cigarette and glanced at my watch wishing he’d shut up already. He acted like the fucking manager half the time and as I looked back up at him, I couldn’t help but laugh. His long curly hair was flapping about at all angles, making Mike’s dishevelled mop of red and blue spikes look like something out of a top hairdressing contest. His skinny frame was dressed in a check shirt and a pair of black jeans and as his hands waved about, the collection of chains and beads that graced his arms jingled about, emphasising each word he seemed to be hissing. That guy needed anger management. Pronto.

“… This is not the way to behave Mike. We have people coming to this show tonight, important people…”

My ears perked up and I had to wonder who exactly these ‘important’ people were. The pope? The Queen of fucking Sheba? Stevie Wonder? Jonathan Davies? Scott ‘Fuck Me’ Weiland perchance? No, they were more than likely a figment of Brad’s imagination but I didn’t raise the subject because someone plonked themselves down beside me and snatched the cigarette that was placed between my lips.

It was Phoenix, resident bass player and he looked just as forlorn and bored as I felt. His auburn hair was hidden beneath a black and red striped beanie, freckles scattering over his pale skin as his cheeks puffed out and he smiled at me before taking a drag of my cigarette.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, flicking the ash onto the floor a few feet below us.

“Too long,” I groaned, looking up just as Brad began another barrage of verbal assault on Mike.

“… What’s this going to achieve hey? We’ve got no chance of a decent sound check now because our emcee is high off his fucking head! Ugh! Just get out my fucking face already!”

I watched as Brad stormed off, practically throwing his guitar to the ground before he disappeared through one of the steel doors to the back of the stage. Mike turned away and walked over to the far wall, his tanned fists clenched beside him before he brought them up and in one swift moved slammed them against the red bricked surface.

“Shit,” Phi uttered from beside me.

I got to my feet and marched over to where Mike was making holes in the wall, quickly grabbing him by the wrists before he caused any more damaged.

“Whoa calm down,” I told him, attentively placing a hand against the small of his back, “You know what Brad’s like. He’s the guy that gets pissy if you butter the wrong side of his toast…”

“Let go,” he mumbled and it wasn’t until he turned around that I saw he was crying.

“Hey…”

He didn’t let me finish, just pulled himself out of my grasp and marched back across the stage, his legs hurriedly carrying him down a set of stairs and out of one of the side exits. I stared down at my hands. They were covered in blood. Wiping them down the front of my hoody, I was about to go after him when Phi’s hands met with my chest.

“Leave him,” he told me, his arms falling to his sides.

I wiped my hands on my hoody once again and turned to where Rob, our drummer was sat, hunched over his drum kit with a rather solemn looked upon his face. He let his drumsticks fall to the floor before he got up, stretching his tall body out and running a bony hand through his dark, cropped hair.

“I guess I’ll see you guys before the gig,” he murmured, jumping down off the stage and walking away.

“Guess so,” I sighed, idly wondering if there were any chance of us even bothering to perform tonight.

“Well I hate to say it, but unless those two make it up we’re royally fucked…”

Looking up, my eyes met Joe’s who up until now had been sat behind his decks, his headphones slung around his neck, eye deep in records.

“Yeah thanks for pointing that out Joe,” I sighed, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.

He shrugged and removed his headphones, placing them down against his decks before jumping down onto the stage. I watched as the Korean DJ swiftly walked across the wooden floor, his blue shell suit rustling with every step he took, fading away as he disappeared down one of the corridors. Phi let a sigh out and turned away, following him in his direction.

And then there was just me.

I lay down in the middle of the stage, grabbed my microphone and raised it to my lips before taking a deep breath.

“I HATE EVERYONE!”

My voice reverberated across the small room and I let the microphone drop to the floor, wincing as the sound of it crashing against the wooden boards crashed into my ears.

*

I can look back on that moment right now and see that it’s probably where all the shit really began to happen. You just don’t see it at the time though, do you?

*

“Chester?”

I groaned and rolled onto my side, cursing loudly when my elbow connected with the side of my bunk and a sharp jolt of pain shot through my inappropriately named funny bone.

“Shit. Fuck. Ouch.”

My eyes snapped open as a sudden sense of deja-vu sank into my mind. Please God, not another day like yesterday. Please, oh please, oh fucking please. I silently begged whoever the hell was up above but a sudden sensation of a finger being jabbed into my empty stomach put an end to my wishful thinking.

It was Mike and I wordlessly moved over in the bed I’d managed to sleep in for a second night running. Any other time and I would have been inwardly ecstatic over it… only the events of the previous day had made sure I wasn’t going to find much at all to smile about. Mike sat down, crossed his legs and fiddled with his fingers for a few seconds until he finally looked up at me, a sigh escaping his parted lips.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed.

“What for?”

He looked at me and scowled, “You know what for.”

“If you mean for going awol on us last night, for worrying the crap out of me and making me think you’d been raped or murdered or god knows what then fine,” I snapped.

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine,” I sighed.

“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to let you guys down last night…”

“What? That was the last thing on our minds Mike! I was this close to calling the police. I had all these fucking visions of dogs sniffing in dirty alleyways for your body, divers scouring drains and ditches,” I began to sniff, “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

“Chaz I…”

I got to my feet, stumbled out of the bunk and into the cramped confines that surrounded me.

“Just leave it. I’ve had enough, okay?” I spat, storming off down to the front of the van.

“Chester please, don’t walk off, I need you,” I heard him whimper, his voice softening, “I really need you.”

I stopped and let out a sigh. Mike wasn’t one to guilt trip, so I knew damn well that there was something behind his desperate cries. A pain rushed through my chest. In all the two years that I’d known him, I’d never heard him cry the way he was now. Turning around, I paced back over to him, a pang in my heart as I saw the state he was in.

“I’m sorry. It’s just early and I didn’t get much sleep what with all the arguing and y’know I’m not a morning person. I just need coffee. Buy me coffee and I’m all yours,” I smiled, nudging him.

He looked up at me and wiped his eyes, “I can’t,” he half smiled, “We’re kinda, not stopping for another few hours…”

“What?” My eyes went wide and I looked around, feeling the breeze flowing in from the sunroof and watching the clouds as they zoomed over us.

“We’re moving?” I exclaimed, “Ugh. The one time I actually want to drink piss weak coffee and I can’t,” I groaned as I flopped down beside Mike in a dramatic manner.

“I have chocolate,” he smiled.

“Okay, now you’re talking.”

Suddenly the day didn’t seem that bad. The sun was shining and I had chocolate.

God, who was I kidding?

*

“So what happened?” I whispered, unwrapping the pink coloured foil that covered my bar of chocolate.

The privacy curtain was drawn across and Mike lay beside me in the bunk, methodically pealing off the wrapper of his hazelnut swirl bar. I, myself, had gone for the strawberry dream. It reminded me of my last boyfriend Joshua and the passion we’d shared for strawberries and cream. We’d spent many a night in bed exploring the possibilities of whipping cream and the plump, red fruit. Happy days when I had a place to live and someone to curl up to at night.

I let out a sigh, got pissed off with trying to tear the foil neatly, ripped it off and placed a chunk of the white chocolate into my mouth. It wasn’t unlike my best friend to go awol. It had just been a long time since he’d done it. And even though he was my best friend, he’d never said much about why he had a tendency to take off for a few days without a word and little explanations upon his return as to why he’d buggered off. He’d done it when we were recording a demo tape; the time we’d been across the other side of America and living in a squat whilst we played small gigs in the surrounded area. It wasn’t uncommon. It was just Mike for you. Quiet. Mr. Mysterious. That’s what he was. He kept himself to himself but slowly but surely across the years I’d known him, he’d started to let me in behind the hard brick walls that he’d built around him.

I took another square of my chocolate bar and placed it in my mouth, watching Mike who was still fiddling with the wrapper, his fingers shaking as they clawed and picked at the paper. In the end I took his hand, making his actions cease and his face look up at me.

“Stop fidgeting and tell me what’s wrong,” I told him sternly. Well, as stern as you can be when you’ve got a mouthful of a chocolate bar that reminds you of the best oral sex of your life.

“It was just the argument with Brad,” he sighed.

“What, that made you storm off and go walkabout for the rest of the night?” I asked, breaking another chunk of chocolate off.

He nodded his head.

It was understandable. I’d been on the receiving end of Brad Delson’s killer bad moods many a time. He always won, even against me and my stubborn ways. He had the ability to make anyone feel like they deserved a long walk alone after he’d raised his voice. But after yesterdays debacle between my best friend and the harsh spoken guitarist, Mike had disappeared for the whole night, our slot alongside the Killertricks had been jeopardized and the five of us, plus Rocky had spent the night trying to find Mike. It hadn’t been that much fun.

“Where’d you go then?” I asked.

“Oh just some seedy pub. It was worse than the place we were… meant to do a show at,” he let out a sigh.

“Then what? You got blinding drunk and fucked by some stranger in a bathroom stall?”

He didn’t answer, just kept on fiddling with the wrapper of his bar of chocolate.

“Come on Mike, this is me you’re talking to. Don’t sit there and be all quiet on me. So you got fucked by some stranger and then what?”

He sighed and looked up, “Then I drank some more and then I wondered around until I finally found my way back here and then Brad yelled at me some more…”

“And you feel better for meeting this stranger?”

His eyes narrowed at me, “What do you think?”

“I think you need to listen to what I told you the other week. So I’ll repeat it. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you can’t keep going off and getting drunk, ending up with some guy you don’t even know the

name of, Mike. What good does it do?”

He shrugged.

“Mike,” I sighed in exasperation.

“Okay it makes me feel good for a while. When I’m too drunk to think about everything I feel like I can escape and when there’s some guy who I don’t even fancy one bit touching me up I don’t stop them

because I…” he paused, “It makes me feel wanted…”

I stared at him, a feeling of guilt washing over me. Mike had been doing this for as long as I’d known him. He wasn’t some kind of whore, well, okay he was in a way because he slept around, not bothered about the consequences. I’d known it wasn’t because he had some egotistical plan of seeing how many men he could screw, because he wasn’t like that. I’d never known the real reason though, not until now, and hearing it kinda left me a little dazed.

“But…” I stopped, reaching my hand out to his, “Mike that’s… Why didn’t you tell me all of this before? We all get lonely but I didn’t know you were feeling that. Some fucking friend I am.”

“Well now you know,” he sighed, “Your best friend is a slut because he can’t stand the thought of being alone…”

“But you’re not alone! You’ve got me and the others, we all care for you so much. So you’ve had your ups and downs with Brad lately, but who doesn’t? Mike please stop doing this…”

He let out a sigh, “I only do it because for a few moments it makes me feel good…”

“You’re really that miserable, hey?”

He sighed again.

“Why didn’t you say? You promised me you’d tell me everything.”

“I’m telling you now.”

I stared back at him, seeing that vulnerable, naïve person; the boy with the killer smile which only seemed to hide what he was feeling inside. I watched him as he stared back at me and thought back to the day we first met, one summer five years ago when we’d both been working dead end jobs at the same grocery store. A warm feeling filled me up inside. I could feel the sun, see the golden fields that surrounded the store, taste the cheap cigarettes that we used to share out there during our breaks. We’d been best friends ever since and I’d always felt this connection with Mike, always thought that we had the ability to figure each others problems out but maybe I’d been wrong?

Things felt like they’d changed, yet they were the same and things felt the same, yet they’d changed. Confusing, I know. But here was the same kid that I’d met five years ago, just as messed up and fucked up as I was. I smiled at him and wrapped my arms around his body because sometimes actions speak louder than words.

*

I looked around the booth that the six of us were squeezed into and couldn’t help but let a small giggle roll off my lips. We looked even worse than Mike and I had done on our walk across the parking lot the day before.

To my left sat Phoenix. He was wearing some old woolly pullover that looked like something your Grandfather would find appealing. It had more moth holes in it than I cared to count and smelt somewhat unsavoury. His hair was today covered by an old trucker style cap, but chunks of it were poking out from underneath, sticking out at all angels. Opposite him sat Joe, still in his blue shell suit that made him look like a football coach rather than a DJ of a band. Beside him sat Rob, who was almost asleep; his head resting against his hand as he struggled to stay awake. Brad was next, his eyes keeping an unnerving gaze on Mike. I watched for a few minutes, thinking what a prat he looked with his hair tied back into a ponytail and his scrawny body hidden beneath an over sized and faded Vans shirt and a pair of khaki trousers that rustled just as loudly as Joe’s shell suit. Then there was Mike who was sitting next to me and looking paler and sicker by the second. His hair was flattened down and he now had two rather bruised and sore looking hands to go with his black eye. His black eyeliner was smudged, eyes bloodshot and red. There were love bites all over his neck which he’d tried to hide with his black scarf and pretty much failed to do so. He kept fidgeting and looking down at the stained table in front of him, pulling the sleeves of his black hoody down over his hands.

I dread to think what I looked like but all in all, cramped together in the seedy diner we looked a bloody state. I thanked God for Rocky who was coming back from the counter with a tray full of steaming mugs of coffee. He placed it down on the table and grabbed a chair which he sat on at the end of the booth, nodding and smiling as everyone muttered their appreciation for the much welcome nourishment that he was providing.

We all drank in silence, most likely simultaneously begging that the food come quickly before Rocky have a chance to talk to us about last night’s little fiasco. Well, all of us except Brad, I’m sure. Because he loved a drama, he loved a ‘discussion’ and a chance to sit there and be all smug and ‘I was right’ about things.

I found myself looking up at Brad again. We had a love-hate relationship. Had done ever since we’d first met. He was Mike’s friend from High School, who Mike had pre-warned me that he would come across as being a bit of an arrogant fucker, but deep down, when you got to know him, he was nice as pie. I’d either still not gotten to know him better then, or, as my better judgement told me, he was an arrogant fucker.

Mike, Brad and Rob had started this band about a year before I met them, and not long after I’d started to hang about with Mike, he’d asked me to join them. They’d needed a bass player and a vocalist and it just so happened that I could do both… to a degree. I wangled myself some singing lessons from my Father’s friend. An hours voice coaching cost me one blowjob.

I was being all jovial about it now, but it actually disgusted me to pieces.

I hadn’t been terribly good with the bass and that’s pretty much what made me see that Brad and I would never get on. He could have used a little more tact, some decorum perhaps? But, if I remember rightly his exact words were : ‘My fucking Nan could play better than you and she’s backwards, blind and has a prosthetic arm.’ I smacked him over the head with his guitar, ultimately winning myself further points in his ‘Who to be a bastard to’ book.

“Chester? Chester?”

I jumped and looked up to see Brad himself speaking my name.

“Sorry?” I asked, forcing my politeness with him, as ever.

Rocky cleared his throat, “We need to discuss last night,” he paused, looking at Mike than over at Brad, “In a friendly manner.”

“Sure,” the rest of us seemed to mumble at once.

“Okay then. I want to take this moment to remind you that you are all supposed to be friends,” he stopped, looking around at the six of us, before continuing, “I know that circumstances are a little unusual and that life on the road is tough, it’s therefore understandable that tempers get frayed a little but that is no excuse for what happened yesterday.”

His calm persona was fast wearing off, the creases in his brow making themselves that bit more visible. I begged the kitchen staff hurry up and bring our food out already.

“Mike,” Rocky turned to look at the nervous wreck beside me, “You get stoned in your own time. Not when you have a gig to perform. You also don’t bugger off without telling anyone. Not only did you let everyone down and lose us money, you also worried the hell out of us. I want your word that it won’t happen again. I’m trying to help you guys on the road to success, not the road to hell.”

“It won’t happen again,” Mike said, finally looking up from the table, “I’m sorry you guys…”

No one really said anything and Rocky took a breath and turned to Brad who up until now I swear was smirking at the treatment Mike had been getting.

“As for you Brad, I understood your argument with Mike but shouting and yelling at him was not the way to do it. I want the pair of you to apologise to one another…”

Brad sat there staring at Mike, who in turn was doing the same.

“Come on,” Rob was the one who finally interjected their game of ‘who can glare the best’, “Apologise already! This is stupid…”

“I’m sorry,” Mike whispered.

“Me too,” Brad grumbled.

“Well that went well,” Rocky sniped, taking a sip of his drink, “Maybe next time you fall out you’ll have grown up enough to not need my refereeing skills. Now, can we all put things into perspective here? Show. Tonight. On stage at nine o’clock. We’ll eat then go and run through the set. I want no shit, understand?”

As if on queue one of the young waiters came over with our food. We sat and ate it in silence.

*

Things felt like they were calming down after that day, but now I think about it, that was just the eerily quiet period before everything happened, before everything spiralled out of control and we didn’t even see what was happening right before our eyes.

*

TBC…

reviews = happy shinobi = updates… oh and be honest!