A/N: I wanted my first Linkin Park fic to be angsty and heartrending, but unfortunately this is what my brain insisted on churning out. I hope you enjoy anyway.

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Chester leans back in his seat and stretches his cramped legs until their joints crack audibly in protest. “‘Desperate’,” he suggests.

Mike considers this, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair and gazing at the lyrics scribbled in his notebook. Eventually he shakes his head and sighs. “It just doesn’t fit.”

Trying to be discreet, Chester glances at the phone in his lap and reads the next word on its screen. “‘Distressed’?”

Another shake of the head.

“How about ‘irremediable’?”

Mike’s head snaps up and he looks accusingly at the other man. “You looked up synonyms for ‘desperate’ on the Internet, didn’t you?”

Damn it, Chester thinks, I am so busted.

“How did you know?” he asks guiltily.

“You keep looking at your crotch before suggesting a word. Plus, there is no way in hell that you would know a fancy word like ‘irremediable’.”

“Ah. Betrayed by my illiteracy.” Chester shakes his head woefully. “I guess I’m gonna have to start reading Shakespeare or something so you won’t catch me out next time.”

“Hang on a second- next time? How long has this been going on?” There’s no anger in Mike’s voice- just genuine curiosity mingled with mild amusement.

Since Chester has no intention of answering this question (he doesn’t think “Ever since we started writing material for the new album,” would go down too well), he does what anyone in his position would do. He changes the subject.

“We’ve been trying to write this stupid song for hours!” he whines. “Maybe we should just... I don’t know... trash it.”

“You do realise that if we gave up on all of our songs so easily, we wouldn’t even have a career?”

As much as Chester hates to admit it, Mike’s right. Some of their best songs would be non-existent if they hadn’t written and rewritten them a ridiculous number of times. However, this realisation doesn’t necessarily make the writing and rewriting any more fun.

Maybe we should just release a cover album instead. That way we wouldn’t even have to write any lyrics. Chester isn’t aware that he’s said this aloud until he notices Mike staring at him like he’s sprouted an extra head.

“Yeah, because that would go down brilliantly with the fans after they’ve waited three years for a new album,” says the emcee sarcastically. “Whose songs do you suggest we cover, anyway? Katy Perry’s?”

“What’s wrong with Katy Perry?” Chester teases. “I’ll have you know that she has some pretty deep lyrics.”

“You mean like that one about feeling like a plastic bag? You’re right- that’s real deep,” says Mike, feigning seriousness. “I’ve never known a musician to equate their feelings to those of an inanimate object before.”

“As someone who feels like a plastic bag everyday, I find that highly offensive, Michael,” Chester replies, just as seriously.

Mike tries to keep a straight face, but the corners of his lips twitch and his shoulders shake with suppressed mirth. Pretty soon, his laughter fills the studio. Chester can’t help smiling too; he’s always loved Mike’s open, hearty laugh and the way his eyes squint when he does so, emphasising his crow’s feet.

“No, seriously,” says Chester, once the other man has calmed down, “it could go something like this.” He picks up a nearby pencil, uses it to tap out a beat on his thighs and begins to sing ‘Firework’ in an exaggerated falsetto.

This, of course, sets Mike off again.

*

When Joe arrives at the studio later in the evening to work out some beats on his turntable, he’s surprised to hear singing coming from inside. He knows that Chester and Mike were writing lyrics together today, but he had no idea that they had made so much progress- they usually wait until they’re completely happy with the lyrics before they begin putting them to the music. He tries to guess which song they're singing, but he can't hear the words clearly from this side of the door.

After fumbling with the key for a few seconds, he opens the door and peers inside. He’s completely unprepared for the sight that awaits him: the singer and the emcee crammed into one recording booth, giggling like schoolgirls and singing the chorus of ‘Teenage Dream’ into a microphone at the top of their lungs.

“What the hell...?”