Category Linkin Park

MINE (Folie à deux) by Penelope_Ink


So like I know the description of this sucks. You'll probably understand after you read it. This was supposed to be a one shot, but since writing it I have an entire story worth of "and thens" ...so we'll see. I'll probably leave it a one shot since I have two other chapter stories running atm, but who knows. I am insane, so anything could happen :) Let me know what you guys think.


A long time ago, somewhere in Texas. . .

The tour bus was quiet. Other than the sound of the engine idling and the occasional sigh, no one was talking. The lights overhead the bunk area were on, casting a dim glow over the eight beds the members of Linkin Park, their tour manager, and bus driver called their own. Three of them were empty at the moment, but the other five were occupied as Brad, Mike, Joe, Dave, and Rob all lay on their backs in their respected spaces. The individual privacy curtains were all pulled back, revealing the collectively disgruntled faces of five-sixths of Linkin Park.

Brad looked at his watch, leaning a little toward the aisle way to catch the overhead light. “An hour,” he announced, his tone leaving nothing to the imagination about his mood as he curled his lip. “He’s an hour late now.”

“He’ll be here,” Mike mumbled as he kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling of his bunk, which felt more like an oversized coffin than an appropriate bed. He yawned and closed his eyes. “He always shows up eventually.”

“He was talking to his wife when we left him,” Joe added as he flipped through the pages of a comic book. “Pretty sure they were fighting.”

“They’re always fighting,” Dave clarified, his eyes closed as he laid with his arms crossed behind his head. “He’s too young to be married anyway. It will never last.”

Mike looked over; from where he was in a lower bunk he could see the bass player’s shoe and part of his leg hanging out of his higher bunk across the way. “Did he say something about divorce?” Mike asked, as a picture of their lead singer popped into his head. Chester and his wife Samantha argued a lot, that was no secret, but Chester also professed his love for her on a regular basis. Mike rubbed his dark goatee. Or maybe it’s not really love he’s always talking about. More like mutual support. That’s not the same as love.

“No, he didn’t say anything,” Dave answered. “But you can see it coming. We’ve known him. . .them. . .for long enough now. She runs him to death. Just picks at him all the time. I could never be married to someone like that.”

A chorus of “me eithers” went around the bunks.

“I’m never getting married,” Rob stated once things went quiet again. “It’s not worth it. Besides, I can’t see how anyone could spend their entire life with just one person. Wouldn’t you like, get board of that person? Or look at poor Chester. He’s married and he’s miserable.”

Mike nodded from inside his bunk, and he knew his bandmates were doing the same. When Chester Bennington first auditioned and ultimately joined their band a few years back, they had initially thought that the fact that he was married was a plus. Comments like, “It makes him more stable” and “He’s gotta be more mature because he’s married” and “He’ll work harder and be more dedicated, since he has a wife” all went around the table.

But none of that had really worked out to be true. Chester was dedicated to the band, he’d proven that, but if anything he was less stable because of his wife. Their constant fighting kept him on edge and drove him to drink more than anyone else in the band. And mature, well, no one used that word to describe their singer, who only recently stopped dying his dark hair blonde. Now his head was shaven, and with it, a more somber expression had marked its claim on his face.

They never talked about it, but Mike and others had suspicions Chester had dabbled in more than just alcohol while on their last tour. They were pretty sure it was all part of his coping method with being married to Samantha - the queen and ruler of his life. Or at least that’s how she liked to think of herself.

They heard someone coming from the front of the bus, and a moment later Chester stumbled through the doorway and into the bunk area. His black-rimmed glasses were falling off his nose as he laughed and lurched forward, like his feet were too big for him.

“You’re late,” Brad said as he jumped down from his bunk, his socked feet hitting the carpeted floor.

“Sorry, Brad-O,” Chester said with a sloppy grin. “Sam called me. And I told her. . I told her. .” He started to laugh as he took another few steps forward. Joe was out of his bunk now too. He was two feet in front of the singer, but he could smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke on him.

“You better sit down,” the deejay suggested as he looked at Chester, and his heart sank for him. The singer’s eyes and cheeks were red - influence from the alcohol. Or maybe he’d been crying. Or both. His white t-shirt hung off his thin frame, making him look like he’d missed one too many meals, and he had. Even though Chester had always been on the small side, lately he had lost his appetite. He would pick at his food around the restaurant tables or pass on eating altogether when pizza or tacos were brought onto the bus. Some days he slept right through scheduled meals, which was concerning to everyone, even though they were all pretty sure why. More and more they were picking up on signs of depression.

“I don’t want to sit down,” Chester said, his words coming out wonky and slurred. He touched his bottom lip - his piercing was no longer there. It had been gone for over three weeks now, but he was still randomly feeling for it. Everyone noticed. “She made me take it out,” he said, looking up at Joe and Brad. “The bitch. Just for her stupid anniversary picture. And then she wouldn’t let me put it back. I loved it,” he told them as his lips dropped to the saddest expression ever to be seen on a human’s face before.

“She told me tonight that I’m wrong,” he continued, his brown eyes drifting off to the side as he avoided looking at anyone. “She said that I was looking at some girl. She saw me on a video or whatever. But I didn’t,” he declared as he looked at everyone in front of him in the eyes as he pointed to himself. “She’s always saying bullshit like that, and I haven’t done anything wrong.” His jaw was quivering. “She doesn’t believe me when I say I don’t do it. She never believes me.”

“Chester,” Brad said, reaching out a hand, slowly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” the singer yelled suddenly - and now everyone was tensed as he smacked himself in the head - his palm pounding into the side of his skull. “She yells and yells and I yell back and then she says all this stuff. She knows what to say!” he screamed, scraping his nails down his cheek, leaving red marks in their wake. “She’s knows just what to say to hurt me!”

Dave was down on the floor now, standing with the others. “Chester, calm down,” he said in the smoothest voice he could come up with. Rob was still in his bunk, braced to his mattress as he watched. His age was against him in this - he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Mike lay frozen, propped up on his elbows as he waited. His instincts told him to get up and help, but there was something shocking about seeing Chester cry - yes, he was crying now. A tear had made its way down the singer’s cheek.

“Why don’t you lay down on your bunk,” Dave suggested as he pointed to the empty bed right over Mike. “You’ve had a lot to drink and you need to chill out and everything will be okay.”

“It’s not going to be okay!” Chester half screamed and half cried as he wiped his face, his painted black fingernails catching the shine from the overhead light as he shoved his glasses back up on his nose. “It’s never going to be okay! Everything I do is wrong!”

He was swaying. He looked like he was ready to topple over at any second as he looked around at his bandmates, and especially at the three who were standing in front of him - all of whom were looking both a bit blurry and a bit mean at the moment to him. They’re on Sam’s side. That’s why they want me to calm down. They want me to sit down and shut up, just like her because I don’t matter.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Dave said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t have a lot of experience with drunk people, so he wasn’t sure how he ended up spearheading this intervention. He swallowed hard and scratched his fingers through his ginger hair for a second as he thought.

“It’s okay that you were late,” Brad offered, popping forward and making eye contact with Chester. “You’re here now and you’re safe, and that’s what’s important. We need to get going to the next city, so come and get in bed. It’s late,” he added, hoping his sugary sweet tone would hit something inside Chester and get him to relax. He and Dave both scooted out of the way to show off the empty bunk that had Chester’s name on it.

The singer took a step forward, his head dancing back and forth, and that’s when he looked down and saw Mike watching him. Their eyes connected - dark on dark - and a split second later, Chester was falling forward, his arms going out like he was about to tackle Mike inside the bunk. Dave and Brad sprang forward to grab him.

“No!” Chester shouted, pulling away from them. “Mine!” He dove into Mike’s bunk, and in one quick move, he was on top of the emcee, his arms and legs sprawled over his bandmate as he clung to him for dear life, as if Mike were some kind of safety net.

“God, Chester, you’re heavy,” Mike groaned, his voice coming out winded as Chester’s weight lay on top of him. He tried to move the singer, but Chester’s grip on the bed - and on Mike himself - tightened.

“Mine,” Chester said again, as he buried his face into Mike’s t-shirt. “Mine,” he whispered.

“Okay, enough of that,” Brad said as he reached for Chester’s arm. Dave tried to help and then Joe - taking hold of Chester’s jean-clad leg. They tugged and pulled, but Chester held on as he continued to whimper the word mine over and over.

“Alright, stop,” Mike finally said, from underneath Chester. “He’s okay,” he told his bandmates as he squirmed and moved to get a little more comfortable. “Just give him a few minutes,” he said, looking up and giving them a smile. “We’re okay.”

A not-so-sure look passed over this bandmates faces, but finally they gave in. Brad went to the front of the bus to tell their manager and the driver it was okay to go while Dave and Joe retreated to their bunks.

Mike let out a sigh. Chester’s head was just under his nose. He stank. He stank of cheap alcohol and strong cigarettes, but Mike could handle that. But Chester was trembling, and Mike wasn’t sure about that. “Are you going to be okay?” he whispered. He had comforted the singer before when he’d had fights with his wife, but nothing this bad.

Chester didn’t answer.

“Want to go to the back of the bus? We can sit on the couch and talk,” Mike tried next.


A second later Brad appeared overhead, looking down into the bunk. “You okay?” he whispered, and Mike nodded. “Sure you don’t want me to try again?” the guitarist asked.

Mike shook his head. “We’re okay, we’re just talking.” He could see the worry in Brad’s deep eyes, but eventually the guitarist gave in and smiled before he pulled the privacy curtain on the bunk closed, to match everyone else’s.

Now it was dark inside the bunk, which Mike was pretty sure was worse. The last thing he needed was for Chester to fall asleep on him. “Hey,” he said, nudging Chester gently on the side. “You still awake? Because there’s no drunk-sleeping on Mike. Not tonight.”

There was a long pause before he finally heard, “I’m awake.”

Mike shut his eyes. Okay. He’s not passed out. That’s good. “So. . .you want to talk about it?” he asked, squinting his eyes, like he was worried about the answer. He’d heard enough Chester/Samantha woe stories over the last few years. They always ended the same. No matter the circumstances, eventually Chester would go crawling back and apologize to her, even if he was in the right. Mike was pretty sure this time would be no different.

“Mine,” Chester said, his one word still as slurred as it was ten minutes ago when he was arguing with the other guys.

“I’m not trying to make you move,” Mike assured him, even as his back was starting to hurt. “We can stay right here and talk, if you want.”

Chester nodded. It was a little nod, but it was still a nod.

“Okay, good,” Mike sighed, with a little bit of relief. Maybe if he could get Chester to talk it out, he could get him to go back to his own bunk. He braced himself for the sob story that was surely going to come next. Rob was right - maybe marriage isn’t such a good idea because you might end up laying on top of your bandmate, drunk, because of it. “So, like, what did she say?” Mike finally asked, already cringing at his own words as he waited for the answer.

Chester’s hand that was clutched to Mike’s shoulder was shaking as he whispered, “She called me a pervert. She said. . .she said she always knew I’d end up like this because, because of what he did to me.”

Mike’s mind went on stun. He was pretty sure he knew what Chester was talking about, and even the thought of it was making him uncomfortable. But he had to make sure. The last thing he wanted to do was be wrong. “You mean, because of the guy who abused you?” he asked, in the most cautious voice he owned. Chester’s past sexual abuse wasn’t something they talked about. It had been one night, one story. One too many questions from Mike about some of Chester’s lyrical content while they were working on some of the newer songs. It had been an awkward conversation then - one with Chester averting his eyes and leaving out almost every detail. He had told Mike only the minimal amount of information, and Mike was okay with that. He didn’t need to know anything Chester wasn’t comfortable telling him.

Chester sniffed before he nodded, rubbing his face against Mike’s shirt, and the emcee could feel the wetness from the tears that were still there. “She always brings it up,” Chester said. “Just to stab me with it. It’s my fault.”

“What?” Mike asked immediately. If he could have sat up and gave Chester a bug-eyed look, he would have. “What’s your fault? That that scumbag of a human took advantage of you?”

Mike took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he whispered quickly as he waited and listened. He couldn’t hear anything outside of their enclosed space, and he let out a small sigh. No one had just heard him.

“She’s wrong,” he said next, lifting his hand to rest it on Chester’s back. “Ches, nothing that creep did to you is your fault - you were just a kid. And you’re not a pervert. Why would she even say that?”

“She sees me on t.v.,” Chester said in a low voice, like it was shameful. “We smile for the camera and laugh with the interview people or the fans - the fans,” he said twice, “that’s what she gets on me about. I’m just being nice. We’re supposed to be nice. And they’re there to see us. They spend their money on our music and our stuff, how can I not be nice to them? But she says it’s more than that. That, that I’m flirting.”

Mike grit his teeth. He really didn’t like Sam, and now he liked her just a little bit less. Over the years they had been Linkin Park, he had never seen Chester act inappropriately for a married man. Never. He was kind and gracious and humble and very appreciative of their fans. Female and male. He laughed with them and always had his beautiful smile plastered across his face for their pictures, but that was it.

“I’m around you a lot,” Mike said, his hand rubbing up and down Chester’s back now, though it was on instinct, not intent. “I’ve never seen you be flirty with anyone, that wasn’t for a joke. I mean, we all kind of flirt with Brad, just to make him mad,” he added with a brief smile. “But that shouldn’t count.”

“She doesn’t even know about Brad. She’d call me queer if she knew. . .even though it’s a joke. She doesn’t think things like that are funny. She just gets mad at me.”

Anger boiled in Mike’s stomach, but he ordered it to settle as he took a long breath and tried to shift a little under Chester’s weight since the singer’s hip bone was pressing into his own and that was starting to hurt. “You know, maybe you should just tell her to go fuck herself,” Mike suggested, even though he knew that wasn’t going to fly. “Seriously, Chester, she makes you miserable. I mean, no offense, but at some point you have to decide what’s best for you.”

No answer.

“I know she’s been supportive of your musical career, but with all the nagging and accusing she’s doing, is that really being supportive?”

No answer.

Mike waited. He could hear Chester breathing, and even though he wasn’t shaking as badly as he had been ten minutes ago, he was still quivering, like he was cold, despite his body being rather warm.

Mike shut his eyes as he tried to think of what else he could say. His fingers feathered up and down Chester’s back, over his t-shirt. He knew the singer liked to be touched - liked to be physically comforted - even though he also knew Chester didn’t get that very much. Sam, when she was around, often froze him out and denied him even that. Their relationship was like fire and ice - when they were getting along, they got along great and their relationship blazed with the appeal and benefits of a happy marriage. But when they weren’t getting along, everything turned cold between them, including Sam’s affection for her husband.

More and more the cold moments had taken over, lasting longer and running harsher. Chester’s increasingly affection-starved lifestyle was proof of that, which seemed like a really good next point to make just before Chester whispered, “She hit me.”

Mike’s hand stopped right at the small of Chester’s back. “What?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Chester said as he turned his head, his face now snuggled to Mike’s neck. The emcee could feel him breathing; Chester’s warm breath brushed against his neck and the bottom of his jawline.

Mike went back to running his fingers up and down Chester’s back, just lightly touching him. “I won’t tell,” he promised, even though that felt like the wrong kind of thing to promise. “When you say hit,” Mike asked with an unsure hitch in his words, “what exactly do you mean?”

Silence, and it made Mike regret asking. It wasn’t his business. It really wasn’t. Besides, he had to figure that Chester’s intoxication was probably doing most of the talking at this point. Wives don’t hit their husbands. Not that it couldn’t happen, he supposed, but he had never heard of it happening to anyone he knew.

“She smacks,” Chester said, pulling Mike out of his thoughts.

His fingers stopped on the singer’s shoulder blades. “You mean like. . .on your arm?”

“No,” Chester answered, his voice just above a whisper. “My face.”

Mike felt his heart stop just for a second as the blood ran from his chest and off into some black hole. The idea of anyone hitting Chester was unthinkable, but in his face? Mike shook his head. “How? I mean, you say that like it’s happened more than once.”

Chester nodded, a slow, sad kind of nod before he snuggled himself a little closer into Mike’s neck and his body, if it were possible. “Please don’t tell,” he repeated. “I don’t want them to know. Or anyone.”

Mike’s hand ran the rest of the way up Chester’s shoulders and onto the back of his head. He cupped the singer’s skull before he pressed his lips there, feeling the short prickly hairs of his shaven head. “I won’t,” he stated again. “Come on, you should get some sleep.”

He went to move, but Chester’s body went rigid as he hung on. “Mine,” he whimpered, and Mike stopped.

“Okay,” the emcee replied in defeat. When Chester got drunk like this, he also got needy. Mike knew there would be no winning with him. “But we can’t stay like this. Your little ass is crushing me,” he said, cracking a smile in hopes of getting a laugh out of Chester, but he didn’t.

“How about we both move to the side,” Mike suggested next, and after a little coaxing, Chester allowed himself to be moved. They shifted, and now they were laying front to front. Chester kept himself as close to Mike as he could get, which wasn’t hard since they were stuck in such a small space.

Mike wrapped an arm round his waist, and shut his eyes. Maybe after Chester was asleep he’d be able to climb out of the bunk and sneak to the back of the bus to sleep. That’s when he felt Chester’s lips on his neck.

At first Mike wasn’t sure what he was feeling - an incidental touch, maybe. But then he knew it was more. Chester kissed his neck, lightly, gently, like a father kissing the top of his child’s head. But then he did it again, and then again. The last one felt wetter, and more intimate.

“Chester,” Mike, said, his insides feeling a little funny. “Chester, you’re drunk.”

“You’re warm,” Chester answered as he kissed the bottom of Mike’s jaw. “And you smell so good.”

“Okay, you’re going a bit far now,” Mike said as he tried to lean back, away from Chester’s kissing lips. “You’re going to think this is funny in the morning,” he laughed, but he could tell Chester wasn’t laughing with him.

“Mike, kiss me.”

Everything froze. Mike’s mind, his breathing, his ability to move. “Ches, you’re drunk,” he stated again.

Chester pet the front of Mike’s cotton t-shirt - the on he always slept in. “Please,” the singer begged, softly. “Just once? I won’t tell anyone.”

“That’s not going to help anything,” Mike told him, but then something stuck at his conscience suddenly. The thought that he had just frozen Chester out, just like Sam, occurred to him, making his stomach feel sick. Here’s Chester, hurt and in need and all he’s asking for is some affection. I’m rotten. I’m as bad as she is.

Mike lifted his hand from Chester’s hip, and gently placed it on the side of his face. How could she ever hit him here? Or anywhere? And then he leaned in, and placed a soft kiss to the singer’s lips. “There,” he whispered. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”

Mike closed his eyes as he felt Chester’s nose and cheek brush up against his face as the singer whispered, “Mine.”

Mike smiled through the dark. “That’s right, Ches, I’m yours.”


Thanks for reading everyone :D Leave your ratings and reviews, if you'd like, I always adore hearing your thoughts, it helps so much.

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