It's in the middle of the day, four in the afternoon. The sun is shining, birds are singing, kids are chasing down the ice cream truck. Curled up in the living room with a book, a child, and a wife? No, not this early. In the kitchen with a newspaper and some coffee? No, it's much too late. At four hours past noon, the best place to be is sat rigid and professional at an easel, splattered with paint while a temporary masterpiece (temporary because the next always outdoes the last) takes shape.

This is your afternoon, when you aren't busy procreating or creating new music. You need a break from all that, especially after a lengthy "band meeting" that bored you to absolute tears. So, you're more than a bit peeved when, sat at your easel with horsehair brush in position, your cell phone rings. Defeat washes over your once-perfect afternoon, but you intend to finish up this call in the shortest possible time, so you can get at least three good hours of painting time, followed by a bath and a good hour in aforementioned living room reading aforementioned book with aforementioned wife and child.

Yanking the thin iPhone from your pocket, you're more than a bit upset to see that it's Chester who calls. Considering you just saw him four hours ago, it must be some sort of Chester-esque emergency. An emergency, however, to Chester can be as grand as a missing pair of shoes or advice on guitar chords. You contemplate letting that call go to voicemail, knowing that, if necessary, Dave has a much better taste in fashion than you.

Your thumb actually slides over the "Ignore" button, but, by some otherworldly accident that you had no control over, you accidentally tap the bright green button that answers the call. Mentally cursing, you hold it to your ear.

"Yo, Ches," you greet, sounding much cheekier than previously anticipated.

Chester's voice, in comparison, comes out much more dejected and hollow, "Mike, um, hey."

Irritated, albeit concerned, at this negative anti-Chester voice coming through your phone, you snidely comment, "You know, you're interrupting my peaceful afternoon, Chester. I hope this is a serious call."

You hear no answer but shaky breaths, and you feel victorious for about three seconds before he responds. His voice is panicky and tear-ridden and your face drops at the sound of it. "I... I'm sorry. Look, can you... can you come and pick me up?

Curiosity gets the better of you. "Why? Where are you? Did something happen to your car?"

A pained exhale is heard through the phone. "No, I.. I just... Um, you remember the shirt you got Joe? At that tacky place uptown?"

"Ew," you comment. "You're in there? That place is disgusting."

"I... Dude, can't you just.."

"Yeah, okay, I'll just have to set down my pending masterpiece," you remark. The grin on your face doesn't subside until Chester's voice sounds again.

"Okay, um... Hurry, please?"

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek in confusion, but Chester hangs up then. The seriousness of the situation permeates your thoughts of a peaceful afternoon, and you replace your paintbrush with your set of keys. The drive there is only slightly rushed, while you anticipate what Chester could want from you in a tacky uptown clothing outlet.

Pulling up to a red light, you hear a slight commotion on the neighbouring sidewalk. A group of men who couldn't be older than thirty, most decorated with average clothing and clean-cut faces, all walk opposite your direction, laughing and celebrating some major or minor accomplishment. They walk by, one commenting on whoever had recently triumphed, and you roll your eyes. The light changes and you speed away, the group quickly forgotten. They seem to be enjoying their afternoon, why can't you be spared that?

Parking in front of the store, you pay the meter for only a half-hour, planning to run in, grab Chester, and run out to resume your perfect afternoon. You dash inside the store frantically, hit by the smell of cheap perfume and air freshened, searching to and fro for your fellow vocalist, but you can't seem to find him among the racks of bright cardigans and striped ties and cheap loafers. You pull your phone from your pocket after a few minutes, whipping up a quick, straight-forward text.

Where r u?

The answer doesn't come immediately, so you toy with a few orange polos until your pocket vibrates. A woman in a hot-pink dress and green flip flops asks you if you need any help. Her hair is so bleach-blonde it's crazy white, but the colour of her skin is an obvious orange spray tan. She looks a perfect fit for the other mismatched colours of this store, but you require no assistance, so you wave her off politely and head toward the back area of the store. Your phone finally announces a response and you read it eagerly.

Bathroom

Perfect, you think, locating the men's washroom in mere seconds. You're just about prepared to dive in and attack Chester with an onslaught of plans that have been ruined with the arrival of his phone call, but you make it as far as two steps onto the dirty linoleum floors before the dense smell of negativity hits your nose, and the sudden lack of light blinds you.

The smell is impossible to describe, but it brings harrowing images to mind - dirty, mangled things caked in dirt and mud and left to rot in the gutters. You crinkle your nose in the dark of the bathroom and nearly gag. Running your hands across the wall, you feel for the light switch, coming across only smooth tiles. Squinting, you call out Chester's name, and are more than startled when a weary voice responds from the other side of the washroom, groaning unintelligibly.

"Chester, dude, where are you?" you ask the blackness. "It fucking stinks in here. Come on."

A whimper of refusal is your response from the same point in the dark. You growl in frustration and fumble for the light switch again, harrumphing in victory when you feel it below your palms. Click - light floods the room, blinding you again. You blink a few times as you search for Chester, seeing only a blurry figure, crouched down over the sink.

"Dude, could you..." you begin, but your vision clears and you see that Chester is not crouched, but, rather, slumped over in a heap over the sink. You blink a few times and see the tattered rips in the hem of his shirt and the long-dried stream of blood leading down the front of it. His head cocks in your direction - his eyes filled with leftover hatred and pain and anger and something that dares you to ask questions.

He glares at you from under his eyelids, but the fury and defeat in his eyes is directed far past you into something you can't name. You take a while staring back at him, until he blinks and a haze of soul-shattering depression falls over his face. You rush to his side instinctively.

"God, Chester," you gasp, resting a hand on his back and bring his head up with your other hand. "What happened to you?"

He smiles through the haze, wiping a trail of dried blood from his cheek. His voice is raspy and painful to hear. "Got jumped."

Your heart stops in your chest. "Jumped? As in, beat up? Who the hell did this to you? Did you see who it was?"

He shrugs sore shoulders. "There were a lot of guys. They shut off the lights before I got a good look at their faces."

You curse beneath your angry hissing and turn his head all the way towards you. A serious-looking purple bruise spreads from his right eyebrow, down his cheek, to his cheekbone, and across his nose. That eye will be black before tomorrow morning, without a doubt. Besides the deep, dark red blood leading down the well-ripped shirt that hangs off of his shoulders, the button on his pants has been ripped clean out of the fabric, the zipper hanging by taut thread lengths, the black cotton blend of his shorts revealed.

Your stomach gives a lurch at the memory of the group of guys that passed by you earlier. How long ago had you seen them? How far had they gone? Who were they? Could it be that they were celebrating some cheaply-won victory? And, was that a victory over Chester?

You half-think of running out to your car and hunting those guys down (and possibly running them over and over with said car) but Chester gives a little cough and your mind is diverted. It isn't the cough you give when you're sick or when you need to clear your throat - this is reminiscent to the sound one makes when they nearly choke on water, only a slight gagging noise and shaking shoulders. The sound startles you and you grab a firm hold of his arms. The sight of the blood on his shirt nauseates you to no end, so you swallow your frustrations and suggest he wear a different one. He asks where he's going to get a shirt in four seconds and you remind him, blatantly, that he's in a clothing outlet.

"We might want to get you new jeans, too," you suggest, looking closely at the obliterated zipper area. He nods solemnly, hesitates. You urge him to take his shirt off, at least, and watch him fumble with the hem for a few moments. He looks so broken and so out of it, you rub his back affectionately, soothingly, and watch him cringe away from your touch.

Or course, concern overtakes you, and you order him to remove his shirt, if only to see the extent of his injuries. "I.. No, I can't," he insists hastily. "Just, I'll be fine, it's just a few bruises, is all."

You don't buy it. "Chester. Shirt off. Do I need to take it off for you?" An eyebrow is raised in a slight threat and he shakes a bit in the shoulders, leans against the sink again and avoids your eyes.

"I can't," he sighs, looking older and much wearier than he has before. Chester rubs down a part of his shoulder in discomfort, so you uncross your arms (not exactly sure when you did cross them) and offer a gentle hand. He shakes his head. "Don't," he pleads. "Just... take me home? I'll change there."

"I refuse," you say sternly, "to let you wear that bloody thing one second longer. Off. I'm not going to hurt you," you add, hoping to remain on his good side. It is, unfortunately, unsuccessful.

"No, I'm fine," he swears half-heartedly. "Look, my car is in the lot across the street. I only called for a ride, because I don't think I'll be able to drive-"

"You're not driving," you decide quickly. "But you're also not wearing that shirt."

"Dude, drop it," he hisses through a raspy voice. "Can you just take me home and drop it?"

"Why don't you just drive yourself if you're going to be this way?" you threaten. He pauses and you grin in victory. When he doesn't surrender immediately, you half-turn on your heel toward the exit and he stutters, "No! I'll... Okay, fine. It's coming off. But not my pants."

You settle for this compromise and watch Chester's shirt come over his head. You expect a few good bruises, and you see a few good bruises, and-

"Oh, wow," you breathe in horrified amazement. Besides a few black and blue bruises, there are also a good amount of red scratch marks and welts blurring the colours on his back. Not to mention a painful-looking swollen ribcage, which leads you to wonder if he's broken a rib under there. Add to that a well-sized gash across his shoulder and you see the full extent of his injuries goes deeper than what you had anticipated.

"God," you marvel at the wounds. You brush your hand over his ribcage delicately, noticing his sharp gasp of pain. "I think... we might have to take you to the doctor."

"No!" he chokes quickly. "No, it's fine. It's probably just bruised up. I don't need to see a doctor."

"You definitely do, Chester," you suck a corner of your bottom lip into your mouth. He refuses and tries to shimmy away from you, but you advance faster, grabbing the crook of his arm protectively. "No, dude, trust me, we need a doctor to take a good look at this. It could be serious."

"It's not," he insists. His voice cracks at the last word, and you press your hand to his cheek worriedly. "The doctor's gonna help you, Ches," you urge him. "Come on, we'll find the guys who did this to you, and we'll get you fixed up, and-"

"No, Mike. Stop trying to solve everything. I just need a ride."

"Well, Chester, you're the one who called me, and you know better than everyone that I'm not going to step aside when some one needs my help."

"I don't," he growls, "need your help. I just need you to drive me home so I can straighten this out myself."

You exhale sharply, watching the way his arms encircle his middle in a hidden, protective manner. Your eyes widen. "What are you hiding?" you demand. His face and chest turn red in denial and he blows you off. "No, really, Chester... What is it? Do you know who those guys were?"

He shakes his head, shaking in the legs and arms noticeably. He leans against the sink heavily, saying, "I just want to go home. Fuck, is it that hard to get through your head?"

You sigh, taking another step forward and peering into his hazy eyes, scrutinising his meaningful glare. He avoids your eyes and presses his stomach in, protectively. "No, take off your pants, Che-"

"What? No! Fuck, no!" he shouts, inching away until he meets the wall. You grimace and grab ahold of his arms, steadying him. "Shit, Mike, stop it! I'm not taking off my fucking-"

"No, you're hiding something, Chester. You can barely stand up," you stay sternly. He fights for control, but you've got both of his wrists held firmly up, so he can only thrash around in refusal. "What did they do to you?" you demand. "You know it's only for your own good, and it's not like I'm gonna hurt you."

"Stop... touching me!" he screams, yanking one arm free and using it to pry his other hand from your grasp. He yells in discomfort when you grab his bicep and turn him to the side, facing the corner where the sink meets the wall. You place one hand on the hem of his jeans, but he flips around and kicks you in the shin before you can bring it down. You crumple to the floor for a split second, hugging your injured leg and watching Chester scramble away from you, into the large, handicapped stall at the end of the row. Regaining your composure quickly you hurry after him, stumbling to your feet and grabbing onto his wrist again before he can stop you.

"No, stop it," he pleads, trying to wrench his arm from you. "I'n not hiding anything." You stand over him, half upset, but also half concerned at the tears trickling over his short eyelashes. He whimpers when you step closer.

"Chester," you try to console him, but he only tugs away from you more. Tired, you release his arm and watching him scurry further away from you, tucking himself into the corner of the dirty, stinking bathroom. You run your hand over your eyes, realising that you should have put in an hour on the parking meter. Sinking to your knees, you try a different approach. "Chester, take off your jeans."

He shakes his head, burying his face into his drawn-up knees. "Chaz," you plead, "Come on. Take them off."

"No," he moans.

"Why?"

"Because."

"'Because' isn't an answer," you snap. "Why are you hiding from me?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because you can't see," he insists, hugging his knees tightly. You take one hesitant shuffle forward.

"See what?" you ask softly. "What happened? What did they..." You pause in thought, rocking on your heels. Frowning, you urge him to look at you. It's not until he lifts his eyes and you see his haze fallen in folds and ripples over his face do you ask him to tell you the truth. He shakes his head. "Please," you beg. "Chester, I'm worried about you. Just... tell me."

He shakes his head and you exhale. Smirking, you add, "Come on, Chester, this bathroom is disgusting." Almost impossible to hear, the few faint words come out of Chester's mouth, "Not as disgusting as me." You jump in sure surprise.

"Chaz?" you say softly, not looking past his shaking shoulders. "Chester, take off your jeans so I can see what they did to you."

He shuffles a bit and drops his head. You wait. They couldn't have hurt him that bad, yet, with his behaviour and all, you have to suspect everything. Your mind goes back to earlier this morning, Chester and Phoenix throwing a paper ball back and forth. Phoenix made a remark that you hadn't heard, and Chester smiled and glanced toward you.

And said, "No, I tell him everything." To which Dave replied, "Not everything." You hadn't heard their whole conversation, but you felt the warmth in his gaze then, the trust and the friendship and you smiled back. Because Dave was wrong. There weren't any secrets between the two of you. You smile at the memory, remembering how many times you and Chester and really depended on each other.

"Remember," you muse aloud, "when you came over for dinner the first time? You met my parents and were so scared that they wouldn't approve of your appearance, so you took out your piercing and covered up your arms."

Chester stays silent, plucking a loop of string in his jeans. "It was eighty-eight degrees that night," you go on, "and you kept that long shirt on all night, for me." Your face gets serious for a moment. "You know, I would've done the same for you. I would've done a lot for you."

He doesn't respond at first, but then lifts his head. "We're getting me new clothes, okay?" he confirms. "We aren't calling the police, we aren't talking about this, we aren't telling anyone - we're just getting me home."

You nod your head. "And, and don't freak out," he adds. "I know how bad it looks, but don't overreact or-or, or try to hug me or anything." You nod again.

"I just want to make sure you're alright," you confirm. "Just, so I'm not subconsciously worrying about your condition." He nods quickly, glad that you've reached some sort of compromise. "Okay," you start, half-expecting him to back out of his decision. "Ready?" He nods, and you're not surprised when he drops his head slowly. You're prepared to jump into action, when Chester, surprisingly, lifts his head back up. "Okay."

And that's that - "okay" and Chester hooks his thumbs in the waist band of his pants, straightens his legs out, and eases himself out of the fabric, revealing pale thighs and shaky knees. You shuffle forward to get a closer look, and have to suppress a gasp.

"Oh," you say softly, running your hand across your face. "Oh, oh, wow. Is it... Can you walk alright?"

He shrugs. "Might need a little help."

You nod. Inside, though, you panic steadily. The bruises littering Chester's thighs are much darker, and littered with crescent-shaped fingernail indents, red and with thin lines of dried blood. A few of the scabs cling to the hem of his boxers, and you cover your mouth with your hand to suppress a scream.

"Chester, did.." you say quickly, then bite your tongue. He glances up to you, his eyes thick with heavy tears. "Did, um... I mean... Are... Is it... Did they-"

"Yeah, Mike," he responds quickly, voice shaking. You shake your head, trying to clear the ringing in your ears and the sickness in your stomach. "It's alright."

"It's not alright," you sigh. "It's, it's not alright, especially since we don't know who these guys are."

"Mike, forget it," he sighs, fumbling with the waist of his trousers. "Just... I don't want anyone-"

"Okay, okay, I get that, but... I can't help feeling upset. Especially after seeing... this."

Chester doesn't bother glancing down to his legs, but another tear makes its way down his cheek. "You can say it. It's fine."

You pause. "I.. I don't-"

"Don't be stupid, Mike," he hisses in contempt. "You're not blind, it's pretty obvious."

"Chester, I'm not... I'm not okay with just accepting something of this magnitude," you try to break down your thoughts into words.

"And you think I am? Well, tough shit, because I had to actually go through the process of getting all these bruises, and I here I am - three hours later and I can say it just fine."

You both stay silent, staring each other down angrily and piteously and sadly until Chester's eyes drop. "I got raped, Mike. If I can deal with it, so can you."

"You are not dealing with it, Chester," you growl. "You're only rushing through your feelings in the hopes that you can get over this faster."

"Maybe that's the only way to do it," he mumbles.

"You need... You need closure, and-and support, and-"

"And I need everyone around me to fucking worry and shit their fuck over this? No, Mike, because, if I tell anyone, it's going to spread like a fucking wildfire and all I'm going to receive are nervous looks and, and sympathetic pats on the fucking shoulder."

"All that means is people care about you-"

"They care that I've been fucked, that's what they care about. They care that poor, sad Chessy just attracts horny men like flies to honey," he snaps, and you lean back in shock.

"I care," you say sternly. "I'm here because I want to make sure you're okay, and I want you to be safe and happy."

"Obviously, wanting something isn't enough," he snorts. You find yourself overwhelmed by a sense of disgust and look away from him. How can he be acting this way after something this terrible has happened to him?

You struggle to your feet. "Well, I'm going to get you some spare clothes. A shirt, pants... probably some new shorts, too?"

He doesn't respond. "Okay, I'll be right back," you swear, a bit tired over the entire affair. You exit the stall haphazardly, closing the door firmly behind you.

"Mike?" a timid voice calls out from behind you. You turn slightly. "Turn the lights off? Please?"

Slowly, your hand brushes the light switch and flicks it off, encasing the bathroom in darkness before you slip out again. The smell of fresh air hits you like a strong slap, and you take a few deep breaths before spotting the bins filled with men's undergarments and whatnot. You take a moment to wonder, exactly, what size of shorts Chester wears, before deciding on one a bit smaller than yours.

Shuffling through clothes, you think about Chester's indifference. It's not that you want him to suffer forever. You just want him to take some time to heal properly. The last time he was sexually abused, he went on a complete downward spiral to destruction. The time it took to bring him back was... awful and painful. This time, it's ten times worse, but is he ready to take on the challenges? Is he changed? Is he stronger now?

You glance up suddenly, seeing that Chester is stronger, now. But is he strong enough to recuperate after such a blow? Will he be able to better himself? You know from experience that Chester is the person who denies assistance. He wants to prove something, something that isn't true. That he can make it through things alone, and that he's stronger by himself.

You see him, in the back of your mind, pulling through sickness and injury without telling a soul of the pain he was in. You don't want him to have to do that again and again - especially not now, when he needs support more than anything. You silently vow to save him from his own stubborn self, just as a sale's assistant approaches you questioningly.

"Hello, sir, do you need any help?" he asks. His hair is as white as the previous woman, but he wears and purple and yellow striped polo. You decline his help after picking out an checkerboard dark blue button-down and grey jeans (in retrospect, they were close to the only relatively normal clothes in the entire store). The payment is simple enough - under twenty dollars for all of your purchases - and you carry the bag of clothes into the dark bathroom. The smell hits you like nothing you've smelled before and you cough a bit.

"Hey," you call, flipping the light switch on. Light floods into your eyes and blinds you, so you fumble for the last stall where Chester stays. "Got you some new stuff to wear."

He mumbles thank-you's as you push the stall door open. Chester stands before you, absolutely naked, his soiled clothing dumped in the corner. You've seen him unclothed before, but you feel a blush land on your face under these circumstances.

"I'll just.. wait out here," you murmur, closing the stall door and backing away toward the sink. Chester laughs at your hesitance while he dresses, the slight shuffling of fabric the only intimation of his actions. You turn over your shoulder and glance into the mirror, analysing your expression. You look about as shaken as you feel, and you push your bangs away from your eyes to get a better look. At first, you're satisfied with just looking, but then you place your hand in your hair, messing it up thoroughly until it flies out in every direction. You pull your hair back with both hands and angle your head, looking at your face from all directions.

You spend a few minutes looking at your face from different points of view before a slight squeaking betrays Chester's entrance. You see him in the mirror, slowly making his way toward you, clad in his new clothes. He looks down, doesn't meet your eyes, but you smile at him anyway. You ask if he's ready, and he puts on the best indifferent grin he can muster. You offer your hand to help him walk.

"I'm okay," he insists, but still walks with a limp. You ignore his cursing as you take him under the arm. "Shit, Mike, I said I was-"

"You're limping," you say slightly. "You've been hurt, and I'm just going to help you walk out."

"I haven't been hurt," he says smugly. "I've been raped."

You don't smile at him as you open the door into the convenience store. "That's not funny," you scold. Chester only shrugs.

"Hey, I'm the one who got fucked up," he claims, "I should be allowed to make any snide comments about it."

You're about to say something when you exit the store completely, Chester in tow. The fresh air is - once again - a relief. You seek out your car, immediately spotting the ticket on your windshield. "Fuck," you groan, yanking it from underneath the windshield wiper. Chester smiles at your frustrations and manages to laugh, so you soften up.

"Come on, get in the back seat," you urge. Chester grins, complies with your request slowly whilst you enter the driver's seat. You place the ticket on your dashboard, and hear Chester's slight cough in the back seat. Turning your head, you watch him lie down and get comfortable, peeking at you from under his arm.

"Thanks," he mumbles, smiling slightly. You turn the key in the ignition and look away, hiding another blush that you can't quite explain. "Sorry I ruined your perfect afternoon," he adds wearily.

"No," you respond, pulling out of the parking area, "I don't think my afternoon got ruined."

"I don't think mine did either," Chester sighs, and you smile, even though you're not quite sure what he means or if he means it.

-e.n.d-