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"I'm glad it is over now." Mike admits in a tired voice, avoiding looking the psychiatrist in the eye, his glance traveling languidly over the inkblots of the Rorschach test cards scattered on the table. "Can I go home now ?" He risks the question, attempting to remember how his own home could be looking like at this point, abandoned carelessly so many years ago. He feels like going there and going to sleep forever.

Previous morning Chester demanded for Mike to help him dye his vividly red hair black. Red changing to black like the skin on his forearms and hands burnt the previous week, the tattooed flames disappearing forever swallowed by real ones. The sorry remnants of his hands were still covered in thick bandages, layers upon layers of white cloth separating the slowly and terribly scarring skin from the world's prying eyes and Chester's own eagerness to play around with his scars.

The fingers of his right hand, permanently spread wide and rendered immobile by equally thick layers of bandages, were gripping the eyeliner clumsily when he attempted to apply it to his eyes and ended up smearing it all over his face, angry black lines standing out against his ghostly pale skin.

He put himself into all black clothes in a painful process that lasted hours, refusing any help with dressing up even though his hands weren't in a good enough shape for him to even try that. He ended up abusing his injuries so badly he was howling in pain all afternoon.

Mike went to the kitchen to cook him dinner, the headphones on and trusty hip-hop beats all he allowed himself to hear. The knife in his hand was trembling badly though as he attempted to cut a carrot into small pieces and ended up jabbing it angrily into an orange pulp. Chester wandered downstairs, his bandaged hands still smelling of burnt skin covering Mike's ones in a rare display of affection, only succeeding in making their trembling worse. He said it was okay, took the orange pulp, broke three plates into pieces dropping them onto the tiled floor before succeeding in putting it onto a plate and ate it happily, the black eyeliner smeared worse on his face by this point than it'd been in the morning and blurred by tear streaks.

He said he was going to miss his tattoos. He said nothing about missing his hands.

Mike turned on the TV after Chester finished his meal. Chester giggled when they got to know from it that they were satanists now. He was still proud about having burnt a church, the notion of consequences escaping his mind altogether. He kept on calling himself Herostratus and truly seemed to be expecting an eternal fame.

Even in the evening, his eyes were still burning with pride. But then it all crumbled and Mike had to fight him to rip the knife from the unsure grasp of his ruined fingers before he could maneuver it close enough to his neck to reach the vein.

"I've asked you to paint the flames for me." Chester pointed out in a defeated voice when Mike finally tucked him into bed, still fully dressed. His black hair spilled on the white pillow. "Have you ?"

Mike shook his head wordlessly.

"Some friend you are." Chester pouted.

And Mike felt guilty and obediently went to the studio to paint the flames swallowing Chester's arms and purging the tattoos out of them and making him howl in pain, the burning church crumbling all around him. It was like a trance and he didn't even notice Chester sneaking into the room, his sparkling brown eyes lapping up every stroke of the brush on the canvas, taken in by the raw beauty of artistic creation.

He was so proud about having inspired Mike again, thinking how his paintings were true masterpieces and how people who inspired masterpieces were remembered for centuries. And this pride was still swelling in his chest even as he was taken away to a mental institution in a police car the next morning.

"I'd like for you to attempt to explain to me how this has come to be first. And why haven't you ever attempted to get any kind of help before." The psychiatrist suggests gently, sweeping the cards with the inkblots off the table, leaving only the clear tabletop for Mike to stare at.

The day he burnt a church, Chester woke up in the morning, dyed his hair vivid red in the bathroom and spiked them cautiously into perfection that made the photographer at the session they attended around noon squeal in delight. He was a star of entirely different level now than he used to be back in the Linkin Park's old days, the critics having agreed upon his artistic growing up having taken place sometime during the last few years and admitted him into the top echelon in the end. It was his session too. Who would have bothered with shooting photos of the rest of them as anything more than a meaningless background when they could photograph him. Mike waited patiently till the photographers would be done, wondering what Chester might have wanted to do with the rest of the day, expecting anything from funfairs to wandering at the cemeteries all night.

"He's wanted to make it big, ever since. And once he did, he only wanted more. It was as if he didn't get the meaning of the word `enough`. The bands he was a part of and his solo project sold jointly well over 100 millions records. He performed on stage or at least got to know personally most of his old idols. He outshone most of them, too. We played two shows a day for a long time because he just couldn't get enough."

It was a rare thing in their lives, a free afternoon with no recording studio, no interviews and no gigs booked for the day. Chester announced he wanted to see that one church downtown and Mike complied without asking too many questions, the way he had been doing for years now. There were lots of people who would have gladly replaced him as Bennington's producer and manager, somehow expecting that big money, girls and booze came with the position. It was Mike's thing alone to know how it was really and he hid that truth behind a brilliant smile, so well-practiced that it could appear nowadays regardless of if he was happy, depressed or mad. He was sure he could have been smiling that damn smile while slitting his wrists and it was amazing him. His own resilience and the prevalent solidity of his sanity were amazing him.

Chester passed a Burzum CD to the driver to put into the car's stereo. Mike searched his mind frantically for something regarding that band that was important, but before he could remember on his own, Chester started telling him all about Vikernes with sparkling eyes while putting his slightly messed up spikes back in order, the angry gashes at the insides of his forearms that he'd gotten a week ago shamelessly exposed to the world.

The media said he had quite a nerve to state in an interview that self-injury was pretty cool.

Things like that were partially what had boasted his popularity to that unimaginable level in the first place and telling him how wrong acting like that was only served to make him more eager to try that again. Chester's psyche was really simple these days, Mike concluded, fucked-up but simple and consequently easy enough for him to keep in check.

He never put two and two together though and thought about Chester actually wanting to copy Vikernes as an arsonist of sacred buildings. He followed along when Chester stepped into the church, his red hair and the vast collection of piercings he got in his ears lately, exposed colorful tattoos and deep self-induced scars adorning his arms and the rockstar worthy clothes all making him look misplaced at this holy place. Not to mention his not so late claims of wishing to become a Zoroastrian.

"Fuck you." He muttered angrily, clearly directing these words at the figure of Jesus hanging at the cross over the altar. "We'll be on par one day, you hear me ?!"

Then they turned on their heels and left the building, dutifully followed by guards, two men in their early forties, one dressed like a particularly rebellious teenager, the other clinging to the hip-hop style of late nineties as much as he clung to the memories of the old, better days. Days when Chester wasn't enough of a star to tell him to stop rapping on their old records, because it was ridiculous in his holy opinion and because he wanted all the spotlight for himself, all the time. Back when Chester wasn't in a position to demand anything he might have wanted, back when he couldn't throw Joe out of Linkin Park just because he thought the Korean was grating on his nerves, couldn't demand a divorce out of Mike if he still wanted to be kept around while better producers were waiting in line to be allowed to work on his solo projects.

They used to be best friends. Whatever they were these days, it was so much less than that, and so much more, all at the same time.

They went back home and Mike got down to cooking Chester's dinner. Restaurants and cooks were out of question with Chester half-expecting anyone but Mike being quite willing to poison his food. Yet he had no qualms about dissolving quite a few sleeping pills in the glass of water he poured for Mike during the dinner.

He left him sleeping at the table, slumped unconscious over the tabletop, and left the house in the fancy limo they used to move around in these days, three canisters of gasoline already waiting in the trunk to be used. He refused the driver's help once they reached the church and poured the gasoline along the building's walls all by himself. He entered the church once he put it on fire and walked up to the altar, staring defiantly at the cross again.

"Fuck you." He said again, as if awaiting a reaction. Soon enough, the flames started to engulf the building, the stained glass of the windows shattering under the heat's pressure, the fire getting inside.

Chester turned around and headed towards the exit languidly once the flames started engulfing the cross behind his back. Meanwhile the firefighters arrived with their sirens howling outside. It was getting hotter and hotter with every step he was taking towards the exit. Yet he miraculously managed to cross the remaining distance unscathed and as if not quite satisfied with that, turned around in the doorway and put his arms right into the fire, his tattooed flames looking so artificial to him at this point he decided didn't want them anymore. His scream of pain pierced the night, the pain's intensity rendering him delirious.

It was how Mike found him in the hospital a few hours later, his ruined arms lying on the sheets, covered in thick bandages, his pupils wide with excitement.

"He was on top of the world for everyone to see and he still thought he needed to burn a church for the world to notice him." Mike points out bitterly, his eyes still downcast.

"You're talking about him with contempt. Do you hate him ?" The psychiatrist asks patiently.

They spent all previous week partying, celebrating the astounding success of yet another Chester's solo record. Chester dyed his hair bright pink for the occasion and showed up at the official party thrown by the record company in a schoolgirl's uniform, joking about how utterly cool visual kei was. At this point, his behavior wasn't even really turning heads anymore, the recording company officials and the tech staff alike treating him like a four year old that was to be pampered as a sure and incredible source of some serious money. If there was some actual business to talk about, they addressed Mike. He was around all the time anyway and it was really better to entrust him with remembering where Chester was supposed to be the next day than Chester himself.

They were moving around the fancy club's interior, getting congratulations from fellow rock stars and officials, all of them laughing with false cheerfulness at Chester's ridiculous attire, making him feel awesome and loved and all the more eager to pour a drink after another down his throat. He excused himself to go to the bathroom at some point and disappeared in the women's one, leaving dumbstruck Mike outside.

Mike only risked getting inside when Chester didn't go out of there for the next half an hour, withstanding the condescending look of some minor female pop star who spotted him in there bravely. Chester was drugged out of his mind at this point already, whatever he put into himself making him half-conscious and mumbling stupidities slumped over a toilet in an unlocked booth. Someone photographed him like that of course, it was all over the press the next day. Chester's pale skinny thighs peeking out from under a short plaited skirt, his bony arm clutching the edge of the toilet desperately, his glassy eyes shining in the light of the flash, vomit dripping down his lips and a mop of pink hair making him look completely and utterly stupid.

It took Mike two hours to come up with a plausible announcement to present the media with. A food poisoning, anyone ?

He spent the night searching through the house, looking into Chester's closet and peeking into his countless shoes, looking for drugs. He came up with some pot, cocaine, amphetamine. He was sure heroine had to be somewhere, but the morning came and with it Chester came to his senses and he needed to wrap up the search. Chester had the audacity to ask him about why he was looking so wretched lately, as if handling him was an easy job.

Drugs came back into the picture when Talinda left him, deciding her husband's galloping insanity wasn't something she wanted to put up with anymore. For months after she left, Chester kept asking everyone about what was the point ? The people he loved kept on leaving him or being taken away. He lost another custody battle. He tried to hang himself, but didn't really have the guts to. Seeing what was happening, Mike urged him into the recording studio, figuring what helped him to deal with everything - hard work that didn't leave enough time for too much thinking, was going to help Chester as well.

What they came up with this time was too big for their band to contain. Chester's musicianship outgrew their own. All the focuses shifted and suddenly Mike found himself being nothing more than Chester's shadow. It astounded him, because he liked to have his own share of the actual spotlight.

"He doesn't deserve to be hated." Mike answers after a long while.

"It's not the question of him deserving it or not, I'm asking about how you've felt about it all these years. In a way, you've lost your band to him and his accomplishments totally redefined your own career."

"I've been the producer of some of the most influential rock records of the last decade. That's not bad."

"Was it truly what you have wanted, though ?" The psychiatrist keeps on asking.

It took Mike a few more days to figure out that it was a hide of X Japan fascination phase for Chester, hence the pink hair and the make-up that attempted to make his eyes appear slanted and all the bragging about Chester being jealous of his Japanese last name. Meanwhile, they were attending parties. Chester seemed to be having fun, pouring the free drinks down his throat in long rows and groping random women in dark corners. Mike was following him around to the point of indiscretion.

He wasn't sure when being Chester's best friend had transformed into being his full-time babysitter. There was always a trace of that though - it was him pushed out by the band in the old days to go handle Chester if he showed up being on drugs, kept getting drunk night after night or appeared depressed. As if he was particularly apt at taking care of things like drugs, alcohol addictions or memories of childhood abuse. He only ever got to know about that side of life thanks to Chester in the first place. But it still seemed he was pretty good at keeping him in check.

"We used to be best friends. I think we've had just the right amount of differences and similarities between the two of us for our friendship to work so well back in the old days. We could stand up to each other's charisma quite well too. Then the balance got all screwed up, but I've still honestly cared about him. While nobody else has seemed to care anymore."

"It's a devastating point you're making." The psychiatrist points out. "So many people were watching him and yet you think he was all alone ?"

It was by the end of the week that Mike realized that during the days spent giving interviews and nights spent partying, their home breakfasts and dinners inevitably neglected, Chester wasn't eating anything. There was no fucking way to force the fast food grabbed on the way down his throat though and he down right refused to have any kind of take-out from whatever place.

"What are you planning to eat then ?" Mike asked in the end during their plane travel from New York back to Los Angeles, where another interview was scheduled.

"Whatever we go shopping for together and you'll cook for me." Chester replied amiably, excessively flailing his hands through the air.

The visual kei phase, Mike reminded himself. They came and went, all kinds of excessive behaviors were better left ignored.

They ended up skipping the interview shamelessly and going grocery shopping instead. Chester was excessive with shopping, as per usual, five of their ten guards needed to take out all the food he had thrown randomly into shopping carts. The kitchen floor in Chester's mansion was all covered in food once it was brought inside, packed neatly in big paper bags. Chester threw it all out of those and scattered the packages all over the kitchen's floor. He thrust the video camera into Mike's hands and told him to shoot him rolling around in food. It was looking surreal.

Then, once he was dirty and exhausted and bored with playing around with food he started to eat and wouldn't stop even when he vomited all over the place off his own accord, without even having to resort to such means like putting his fingers down his throat. When Mike attempted to drag him out of that mess, he grabbed a knife off the counter and expertly cut two long gashes on the inside of his forearm, threatening he would slit his wrists if Mike tried to take his food away.

Mike relented and went to the adjoining room instead, ignoring the awful sounds of desperate munching followed by retching right away, took the gun out of the drawer and loaded it with a strong sedative. He'd been doing this many times in the past. He didn't have qualms anymore about shooting the needle into the back of Chester's neck from behind.

"Various reports that have surfaced at this point state that he's been indulging in all kinds of self-destructive behaviors. Why do you think he's been doing that ?"

Mike's staring intently at the drawing he's just scribbled with a ball pen on a random piece of printer paper.

"I'm not sure." He answers only a while later. "It must've been something about everyone allowing him to do that, to an extent. As long as his performances stayed top notch, they... we... didn't really care about what he was doing to himself."

The week before the release of his newest solo record Chester took two days dressing up for the informal release party, refusing to let Mike see him and only allowing Brad to stay nearby. Brad's head was hurting with all the tips Mike had given him beforehand, but he was still happy about relieving his friend off that bothersome duty he'd taken upon himself for some time. Contrary to what Brad was thinking though, Mike wasn't relaxing at all. He spent two days staring at his cell phone's screen, awaiting a call announcing that Chester had killed himself on purpose or unintentionally or done something equally stupid while unsupervised by him.

"I missed you a lot, dude." Chester stated, giving him a tight hug once they finally met up for the release party.

Mike held him at arm's length, surveying his appearance with a weird feeling appearing in the pit of his stomach, noting the spiked black hair with blue highlights at the edges, black contacts, simple ear rings and his very own clothes.

"Why are you... ?"

"Looking like you ?" Chester asked, smirking. "Sometimes I fantasize about being just like you." He drawled seductively right into Mike's ear. "So talented, so dedicated, so able to keep oneself in check. Brad has told me a few things about you I haven't been aware of, though." He added, starting to sound dangerous, his arms tightening possessively around Mike's waist. "I thought you were all mine. But he said you're still going out with Anna."

"I'm not going out with Anna. I was at her mother's funeral."

"I don't like you meeting her at all. Her or anyone else, for that matter." Chester stated before withdrawing.

"Forgive my indiscretion, but could I ask if the rumors of a romantic relationship between you and Chester have been true ?"

"If you understand romantic as in love, then no." Mike answers, shading the picture in front of him attentively.

Mike spent half the release party with his hands full of Chester, taking all kinds of liberties with his body in a public place and kissing him messily when he least expected that. Everyone was laughing at how he'd dressed up as Mike and attempted to imitate his manner of speech. At least Chester was being considerate with drinks, soon enough he lost interest in Mike though and wandered away to grope the ladies instead, making him promise he'd be waiting patiently for his return without allowing anyone else to touch him before leaving his side though.

Chester's possessiveness was just another thing Mike dealt with, one way or another. There were days when he got punched in the gut the strongest Chester could manage for talking to Brad a little bit too friendly or supposedly staring at some girl's cleavage. He wouldn't say he did not stare at all, but he thought he was allowed that much at least after Chester had forced him to divorce Anna with an all too simple ultimatum of him or her.

"You're mine. Do not forget that." Chester materialized right behind him only to whisper that right into his ear, his tattooed arms wounding themselves around his midriff tightly. Chester looked down at them thoughtfully, surveying his flames as if he was seeing them for the first time. "I want you to get something that would remind you of that."

With a practical sense he didn't generally display, Chester arranged for them to fly to Phoenix the next day to pay a visit at the original Club Tattoo. His old friends there were joking around carelessly with him, somewhat shocked by his attempt to make himself look like Mike, confronting Mike about his state behind his back and only getting a false smile and a shrug as an answer. Mike thought how him getting a tattoo, especially one marking him as Chester's property wasn't the best idea really, but he was long past the point at which he would've tried to argue with Chester about that, all too well aware of the threats that would have spawned.

At the very least, he managed to get it on his lower stomach, a place that assured the general public would never get to see it.

"How am I supposed to understand it then ?"

"I was past the point of attempting to say no when he wanted to have sex with me. Why do you need to know anyway ?" Mike asks defensively, looking up from staring at his drawing.

Before that was the Freddie Mercury phase, one at which Chester woke up one morning and randomly announced he was going to become a Zoroastrian. Having lived through his fascination with daoism, ancient Egyptian religion and Mitraism Mike half-expected that to happen one of these days, dutifully supplying Chester with English translations of Zend Avesta and Steiner's works alike.

"Wouldn't you like that ? To die on top of a Tower of Silence in the middle of a desert, ripped apart by vultures ?" Chester asked Mike on their way to the venue one of these days, running a tentative hand through his platinum blond hair.

"People are already dead when they're placed on top of those." Mike pointed out in a tired voice, unable to stop himself from thinking what a fucking great lyrics that would have still made. He didn't dare to speak up about that though. Nowadays, Chester was writing his lyrics alone, going as extreme with those as he wanted.

"Sometimes I feel like that though. All alone on top of the world, surrounded by smiling corpses, the vultures ripping me apart..."

"Don't talk like that."

"You are the only piece that doesn't fit into that puzzle." Chester noted, scowling, before threading the fingers of his right hand through Mike's hand inattentively. "Hey, note that down for me, will you ?"

"Why haven't you ever attempted to search for any kind of professional help for him ?" The psychiatrist asks. "Surely, you must have noticed... What is it you're drawing anyway ?"

Mike slides the drawing her way carelessly, having completed it with one last stroke of the ball pen.

"What's that ?" She asks, sounding the slightest bit bewildered, surveying the detailed picture of a frail looking skeleton lying on top of a high round tower, black birds seemingly guarding it, their dark shadows looming dangerously over the clearly human bones."

"It's all that's left at this point." He answers as if that made any sense.

A week before that Mike felt ready for a little while there to let Chester inject HIV infected blood he'd fucking bought on an internet auction right into his vein. These were the first stages of the Freddie Mercury fascination. Looking for a great way to die.

"Come on, Mike. It's time for me to think of a cool way to die." Chester pointed out, shaking the phial of infected blood in front of his eyes, surveying the dark red semi-solid substance curiously. It was such a perfect poison, such a powerful tool of destroying lives. He couldn't help but be mesmerized by it. "I can share it with you too." He offered reluctantly.

"Fuck off." Mike growled before leaving the room, forcefully shutting the door before getting out, for once leaving Chester to his own devices.

He'd had enough. The last night had been damn close to exhausting the supply of his patience and resilience. For all the sacrifices he'd made throughout all of this, he thought at the very least Chester had some respect for him, even in that messed up mind of his.

He got into his car, rotting in front of Chester's mansion, unused for months. It wouldn't start, go figure. He got out and wandered off on feet, turning down all the offers of the guards who were ready to follow him. He didn't feel particularly popular in that way anymore, he didn't fear fans assaulting him anymore. Producers who are only working on great records because they happened to be at the right place at the right time don't have crazy fans.

He wandered throughout the empty streets of Hollywood for some time, encountering only fancy sports cars whizzing by on his way, thinking about how that was not what he'd wanted and bargained for at all and thinking back to his old house, still waiting in a bit less prestigious part of Los Angeles, back to the old demos of hip-hop records waiting in his home studio there, untouched for years...

A few hours later he realized he was feeling as if he was lacking some essential part of his very self he was supposed to have with him at all times.

He was missing Chester already.

"Numerous charges have been filed against him in the course of the last few years, most of those having to do with sexual assault of various kinds. From what I've read, you've become an expert in labelling those as provocations and ending the trials by agreements with the victims." The psychiatrist points out, having included Mike's drawing into the acts.

"Those were mostly provocations indeed. Real groupies have always known well enough what they bargained for getting close to him and came over searching just for that. Or at least were ready to deal with it."

"Why do you think he's been doing that ? Even though he kept getting caught ?"

"He had that silly little dream of becoming an ultimate rock star. He thought some serious fun with groupies would do well for his image." Mike answers with a shrug, his eyes downcast again.

"Have you heard about that, Mikey ?" Chester asked him, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. "Led Zeppelin have raped a groupie with a fish. A fucking fish."

"It's just a rumor." Mike pointed out, getting back to typing up a response to yet another e-mail.

"Fuck that, it's an awesome idea too." Chester stated, continuing to laugh.

His breathy laughter was starting to grate on Mike's nerves. Nonetheless, he continued to type at a steady pace, even though the text he was writing was stopping to have sense altogether.

"I'd like to try that, actually." Chester said in the end, having stopped laughing, wiping the tears of silly happiness off his cheeks with the back of his hand. He surveyed the room curiously, the two guards by the door, Mike looking so distressed, his blood-shot eyes stuck on the laptop's screen. He looked around the spacious hotel room again, wondering how he could've gotten a nice groupie and a fish in there.

He wanted to try that, right then. He looked around the room again. His eyes landed on Mike.

It took a lot of struggling, cursing, begging and both guards' help for Mike to finally give up and let the dead fish be shoved into his anus by Chester's apt hands. He thought it was funny and kept on laughing hard.

"Come on, Mikey, I know you like it."

Neither Chester nor the guards holding Mike down expected his hand to move so fast, reaching out right for Chester's throat and squeezing his neck so hard the other man's eyes bulged out right away, the tears pouring down his cheeks in sudden rivulets.

"Calm down, dude. You want to kill him ?" One of the guards spoke accusingly before forcing Mike's hands down forcefully. "You of all people should know best how he is. Let him have his fun."

"Honestly, if you want to know my opinion, I think he's beyond redemption at this point." Mike states in the end, the question of looking for professional help before coming up again. "He's too inclined to be acting this way by the world cheering him on for years to stop now. Or ever."

"Do you think he doesn't deserve help ?" The psychiatrist is sounding the slightest bit accusing.

"I think it is him. His insanity is what is making him himself. I don't want to think about what will be left behind once you take it away."

The previous week started with Chester dyeing his hair blonde and starting to wear glasses again even though he didn't need those anymore. The final remixing work was being done on his newest solo album and Mike was spending a lot of time in the studio, keeping Chester close and having him become excessively bored during the long hours filled with clicking around in weird programs and technical chatter he'd never really gotten and didn't really give fuck about at this point.

"I'm bored." Chester announced for the umpteenth time during the last hour, having already abandoned five different books he was attempting to occupy himself with reading. His attention span had reduced itself to the bare minimum during the last few years and he only ever became entranced with things for days, a week at the most. Hair colors, clothes, beliefs and women all came and went. The music was the only constant. The music and Mike by his side.

Chester noted how he was never getting tired of Mike. Strange indeed.

"Let's have sex." Chester proposed carelessly, draping himself over Mike's shoulders from behind and starting to probe his ear with his tongue teasingly.

This stupid offer had first come up a few months after Mike's divorce, once Chester realized with an utmost horror that ever since it Mike wasn't having sex at all. No thanks to Chester growling at any woman who dared to as much as answer Mike's smile with one of her own.

But it was only another few months later that Mike finally let this happen, coming to realize this was the only sex he'd be getting around Chester. It was still better than nothing.

A lot better. Unless Chester happened to like it rough at that specific moment, which never ended particularly well and somewhat impaired Mike's ability to keep up with him during the few following days.

"I'll be back in half an hour." Mike said to the coproducer before leaving the room with Chester grinning cheekily like a mad man that he, quite frankly, was.

"How has that come to happen, though ? The reports state he used to be a pretty normal responsible man some ten years ago. Your input may be essential here as you've been there all this time and you must have picked up on the changes."

"He could do whatever he wanted." Mike shrugs again. "He's lost another family, he had no wife to keep him in check, no kids looking up to him, no fans that wouldn't lap up everything he might have pulled off, no friends that wouldn't care about much more than his fame sky-rocketing. What would you've done with such freedom ? Most of us would've probably succumbed to every imaginable thing we could get our hands onto."

"Hasn't he had you ?"

"For a long time there, I've been thinking his music was way more important than his well-being. Whatever inspired him, you know ? I would have supplied that."

The previous week was all spent shopping. Chester was getting ready for all the parties and interviews and concerts. Getting ready for anything entailed for him mostly buying shoes and dyeing his hair nowadays and he did just that. His hair was silver and he was wearing fancy shades and throwing his golden credit card on the counters carelessly with Mike and the row of guards following around meekly, soon enough each and every one of them holding a bag full of shoes in their arms.

"Fuck, what does he even need those all for ?" One of the guards nudged Mike's side and asked him, unable to contain his curiosity anymore.

"I just like shopping, that's all." Chester answered instead, having overheard the question. "It's like a hobby. You take the shoes from the shelf, you throw them on the counter, you pay, it's fun. You're thinking in the back of your mind: those shoes cost as much as saving a young girl in Africa from being sold to become a prostitute or something like that. And yet you can just spend this money for shoes you'll never wear. It makes you feel god-like."

The guard gaped.

"Dude, but you spend lots of money on charity..." He pointed out hesitantly.

"Care to bet I can spend more for shoes ?"

Because of that stupid talk, they bought over 1000 pairs in five days. Chester's math was screwed because he didn't manage to spend more for those than he did spend on charity, but Mike refrained from pointing that out, having the matter of getting lost of that much shoes on his hands once Chester grew tired of shoes and boots and high heels filling every corner of his mansion, thrown around carelessly and tried on and burnt and cut into pieces randomly.

"I hope you do realize we will be all intent on him staying in the hospital for a really long time. Right up to the moment when he achieves some kind of mental stability again."

"I hope you do realize soon enough I'll start fighting to get him out of here and back on stage too ?" Mike asks back, looking the psychiatrist right in the eye for the first time since their talk has started. "I'll take a break, maybe work on some of my own material in the meantime, but I will be back to get him out of here."

"Do you honestly want him to die during one of his stunts, this life destroying him entirely ?"

"It is what he wants too. I don't expect you to understand though."

During the charity gig on the Saturday night of the previous week, Mike was playing guitar in the assorted band of musicians accompanying Chester, him playing guitar in the background not bothering Chester nearly as much as him rapping alongside him. The show was great as per usual, the crazily swaying crowds all around radiating the kind of raw energy that was plain addictive, the real hysteria ensuing with Chester's voice reaching the limits of its capabilities on that night.

Mike thought how he truly hadn't sounded nearly as good back when he'd been sane.

They were happy and sweaty after the show and Chester threw an arm around his shoulders in a friendly gesture while they were walking towards the dressing room on legs that weren't particularly stable with all the excitement and the rush the crazy applause had given them. Chester's purple hair was sticking to his forehead miserably, all soaked with sweat whole his body was glistening with. Mike was wondering if he was looking nearly as bad as Chester himself.

"You know what I've been thinking ?" Chester inquired right as they were entering his dressing room, separate from the one for all the other musicians from their band, as it was him being the star in its own right.

"What ?"

"Only now I have realized how purple oranges really are." Chester stated in a serious voice. "Everyone thinks oranges are orange, but what everyone thinks is nothing but one of the myriad of possible ways. Why not walk some other ways than the one everyone walks while we're at it ?" He asked excitedly.

It is that spark in his eyes that Mike's thinking back to half a year later, having spent insane amounts of money and exhausted nearly impossible connections to get Chester out of the mental institution.

They're walking alongside each other through the park surrounding the hospital, heading to the exit. Chester's hair is its natural color for once and slightly curly as it is on its own. He's not as thin anymore either, the hospital meals having been forced down his throat for months.

They haven't really spoken yet and Mike's unsure about who's really walking by his side. He risks that question, his voice sounding slightly hopeful, even though he's trying for it not to sound like that.

"Say, Chester, what color oranges are ?"

"Purple ?" Chester answers right away, somewhat maniacal glint appearing in his eyes.

Mike smiles his beautiful false smile as they're crossing the gates of the hospital.

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