Category Linkin Park

Slouch Couch by starscream

author's note: written from the following two pictures: http://cdn.sparkart.net/mikeshinoda/content/photos/63196.jpg http://cdn.sparkart.net/mikeshinoda/content/photos/86835.jpg

this is kind of my apology to the faithful readers/reviewers of 'life in technicolor.' i should have explained before that there are only four chapters, and then an epilogue [which i am working on] but seeing as it's taking me a minute, i thought i would give you this for now :( also, like other things i've posted, i don't quite agree with the genre i've put it in, but it's the best option there is.

beta’d by shinobi :]

Slouch Couch

Mike doesn’t know what time it is.

He’s been staring at the computer monitor for the past three hours writing, re-writing, re-arranging, re-writing, and re-fucking-writing lyrics over and over until he’s certain his brain is going to explode and splatter the walls of the tiny room. He can’t read the small numbers in the corner of the monitor that say 3:37 AM because everything is blurry beneath the sting of his dry contacts, so he spins the seat of his chair away from the monitor and nearly falls to a heap on the carpet. Everything is moving, vibrating, fuzzy around the edges and he can barely make out a long black shape sitting on the red couch before him.

“Chester?” He mutters while rubbing his eyes, only agitating them further as he tries to steady himself while leaning back in the chair. His spine aches from being cramped and hunched over the computer desk.

All he gets in return is an inaudible grunt so he reaches out and pats the couch down until he comes into contact with the warmth of Chester’s covered knee. His hand follows up his friend’s thigh as he crawls out of the chair and onto the couch and tries to settle into a more comfortable position but he knows it’s going to take a good five minutes of discomfort before his back will mold to the cushion of the couch.

“Are you done pretending to work?” Chester asks, lifting an arm and wrapping it around Mike’s shoulders, pulling his tired form against his own.

“I wasn’t pretending,” Mike huffs and tries to be offended because maybe then he will cry and his eyes won’t burn so terribly.

“Ethan fucked off hours ago. Mark and his camera haven’t been seen for days; why don’t you fucking relax for a bit?”

Mike is surprised at how harsh Chester’s voice sounds and tries to pull away. Thankfully Chester doesn’t allow this and tightens his hold on Mike’s shoulder, preventing him from getting up and stumbling around blind, probably stubbing his toe and knocking over something expensive.

“Chester?” He asks and sleepily peers up at his friend. He can’t see much; Chester’s face is hidden in shadow beneath his black hood and even if it weren’t, well, things are still spinning and fuzzy.


“I can’t see,” Mike utters dumbly and curls his legs up against himself.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Mike,” Chester shouts and pushes himself up off the couch, pulling Mike’s arm with him.

Chester leads him blindly to a small bathroom where he instructs him to remove his contacts before tipping his friend’s head back, ordering him to keep his eyes open no matter how much it hurts, and tips two drops into each burning socket.

“Fuck,” Mike hisses and tries to jerk away while blinking furiously. But Chester keeps a hold on his biceps, presses him back against the wall, and holds him there.

“When are you going to learn your fucking lesson?” He asks while bringing a damp cloth to Mike’s cheeks, wiping away the trail of solution and tears. “You’re going to go blind if you don’t start paying attention to this stuff, Mike; honestly. You’ve worn contacts since you were a teenager; why can’t you be a bit more responsible?”

Mike’s hurt by Chester’s accusations but doesn’t say anything, just allows Chester to brush his cheeks and berate him. When things are just blurry, not throbbing and pulsing as if they were breathing, Mike knows he’s alright and leaves the bathroom with an air of familiarity. He’s been holed up in Laurel for so long, never really going home or anywhere else for that matter, that should he truly lose his sight he’d be able to go about the day as if it were normal.

Chester catches up with him at the base of the winding stairs that lead back up to the vocal room, keeps a steady hand on Mike’s lower back as they ascend the stairs, and only removes it when Mike has slumped onto the red couch again.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice,” Chester says as he closes the programs on the computer and expands an alarm clock widget. The large numbers say it’s 3:53 AM. He flips the switch by the door and the room is dark for a moment before his vision registers the glow of the widget. He climbs onto the red couch where Mike is sprawled and kicks his shoes off before pulling Mike’s limp form against his own.

“Mike?” He murmurs quietly, feeling like the dark and Mike’s closed eyelids warrant a softer tone. He lets his fingers smooth over Mike’s hip where the plush material of his hoodie meets the coarse denim of his jeans. When he doesn’t receive a response he sighs and sits up a bit, leans over his friend, and reaches down to pull his shoes off. He doesn’t have to untie them; they just drop to the floor and Mike instinctively curls his legs up onto the couch. Age, experience, and common sense mean nothing to his childhood fear of someone, or even worse something, living under the bed; something ready to snatch his feet and drag him below.

Chester feels the movement as he returns to his original position. He curls his arm around his friend and sidles up along side his warm body, yearning for the physical contact.

“Chester?” Mike whispers and peels his eyes open. He sees the muted shape of Chester’s hooded head rise up from where it rests next to his own, face hovering near his, breath hitting his face. He smiles at the smell of cherry cough drops.


“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says quietly and extends his arms, wraps them around his friend’s back and pulls him down to his chest.

Chester exhales loudly, sending a cloud of that syrupy medicine into the cool air of the room, and nuzzles his head against the crook of his friend’s neck, as if he were an affectionate pet.

“I just worry about you,” Chester mutters aloud with that soft voice, arms returning the embrace, slipping around Mike’s torso and clutching. “I know you don’t mean it… you just get caught up and don’t notice the time. But it’s important for you to take your contacts out in the evening.”

“I know,” Mike huffs against the cloth over his friend’s head and squeezes his hold a bit tighter.

“Just… just,” Chester stutters, unable to say ‘just try harder next time’ because it sounds too mean, too much like he expects better of his friend.

“Just what?” Mike asks quietly while squirming closer to Chester’s body heat.

“Nothing,” Chester murmurs and tilts his head back, leans up, and presses his warm lips to his friend’s jaw. “But maybe you could wear your glasses for a few days, yeah?”

“Okay,” Mike says like an obedient child. Chester smiles and sighs, thinking about how fucking comfortable he feels, how the drafty house isn’t so unwelcoming and frightening when his best friend has his arms wrapped around his body. Nothing can harm him here in this moment.

“Good boy,” he chides and lets his eyes fall shut as Mike’s body trembles with a good humored laugh.

“’Night daddy,” Mike whispers and allows the day’s and early morning’s events to take their toll as he falls asleep.

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