Title: Animus

Fandom: Linkin Park

Rating: PG-13 (Subject to change in future chapters.)

Pairing: Mike/Chester; slight Chester/Sam

Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own. Fictional, like pigs flying.

[Animus - Chapter 1]

Large social gatherings bother me to no end. I would usually end up drunk, pass out on my couch afterwards and have no memory of it the next day. I clench my glass, because Chester's neck isn't readily available at the moment. Neither is my good judgement, because I should've never come here in the first place. I look down into my half-empty glass and notice that my tie is crooked, the collar of my suit has a grayish stain on it, and my hair is disheveled.

Apparently, my intrinsic attractiveness has failed to show up today, because all I've gotten today are disdainful glances and the occasional whisper. Just because I look like shit doesn’t mean that I’ve gone deaf. You know what they say, lose one sense (my fashion sense) and gain heightened awareness in all the others.

Just when I think everything has hit rock bottom, Whitney Houston’s Feels So Good starts up on the speakers. I’ve always, you know, assumed that being involved in the music industry, Chester would be able to discern good music from crap. Maybe Sam coerced him into it, or those wedding planners. Those were a pain.

Only you can fulfill my every need…

Please shut up.

Only you can save me…

Yes, someone, save me.

“Mike? How’s it going?”

Thank god. No, no I mean thank God. Chester. How fitting, that he be the person to deliver me from this hell, when he was the one that got me here in the first place. Really, I just want to go outside and have a smoke. Fuck, I’ll even take up smoking if it means I could get out of this place without feeling like a guilt-ridden asshole. An arm goes around my neck and pulls me into a hug. He smells of Acqua di Gio, one of those ridiculously expensive cologne-type things that everyone gets during the holidays and never uses.

At least I’ve smelt the real Chester, sweaty and hungry after a concert – that special smell composed of sick desire and want … want. We were nothing but pure, unadulterated hedonism. But I suppose I’ll have to deal with this. Three-piece suits, bathed in cologne, and marriage.

“Married, huh.” Not so much a question than an observation.

“Feels great, Mike.” He runs a hand through his perfectly sculpted hair, and his face breaks into this grin, and I think, he’s really happy. Maybe even go so far as satiated. Sam comes up behind him and puts her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. How saccharine. I feel like spewing whatever I had for lunch that day. In the bathroom, of course, wouldn’t want to be an impolite guest.

“I’m so glad that you made it, Mike. It seemed like you had an unfortunate week.”

More like an unfortunate year.

“Uh, sorry, you guys. I have to um, go to the bathroom.”

I walk, or stumble to the restroom. I’m assaulted with over-zealous fluorescent lights and I see Joe finishing up his business in a nearby urinal. Damn. I head to the adjacent stall, and Joe claps his hand to my back. Oh, great. Speed up the vomiting process for me, so I don’t have to. Thanks a shitload.

“So Chester’s finally hitched!”

Yeah, I know. I am here. At their wedding. In the bathroom of their wedding. Attempting to take a piss in the bathroom of their matrimonial paradise. I undo my buckle and hope that my silence will shut him up.

“Depressed? I know, Mike, I really do. Chester getting married has gotten you really depressed, I can tell.”

Wait. He knows? He knows about Chester and I? I stop unbuckling my belt and swallow the phlegm that had gathered in my throat. Maybe Joe wasn’t as clueless as he let on.

“I bet you want to get married to a gorgeous piece of ass too.” He winks.

Oh Joe. You read my mind perfectly. Of course I want to get married. Of course I want to fuck women. Of fucking course. I force a pained smile and re-buckle my pants. I wash my hands with antibacterial Dial soap, and for a minute, I hope the soap can wash away the thoughts in my head. Why couldn’t I be a real friend and be happy for him?

Because you’re a selfish bastard, my conscience inserts smugly. I’m selfish? I was the one that stayed quiet, the one that was used when he was lonely. And when other feelings surfaced besides lust, it was ignored and dismissed as temporary. Nothing is temporary, nothing is static. Why should I be branded selfish when all I wanted was compensation?

I grind my teeth and feel like throwing something against the wall. Just to cause a little commotion in this peachy little ceremony, with all the happy people, with all their “Congratulations” and “Where’s the honeymoon?” and “I’m so happy for you two”. Back to the reception, the lights have dimmed and every one was sitting at their designated tables. I’d almost forgotten – the mandatory toast. I went over to my table and sat down in my seat diagonal to Chester. Smiling, he squeezed my thigh and got up.

“Ladies and gentlemen – thank you all for coming here tonight. This is one of the happiest moments of my entire life and I’m beyond grateful that you can all witness as Sam and I united in marriage. Special thanks to my best friends.”

And he looks down and smiles at me. The man has the nerve to smile at me.

And then, I realize, I have an announcement too.

“Ladies and gentlemen, hi, I’m Mike. I fucked the groom.”

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+to be continued+

a/n: So there you have it: my first slash encounter of the Linkin Park kind.