Linkin Park: Brad/Chester, #020 Colourless
Title The big come down (colourless)
Fandom Linkin Park
Prompt Colourless
Words 517
Rating R. Maybe.
Summary Chester would rather his world be colourless than filled with bright hues of pain.
Chester feels alone more often than not. In that in-a-crowd-but-completely-alone kind of way that people always write about in poems, songs. Probably this is because, since he and Brad broke up, there’s just this big empty void. Most of everything he feels is a big fat nothing.
He told Mike about all of this once and Mike just sighed wearily as if Chester was laying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like Atlas carrying the heavens. That’s the way Mike sighed.
“It’s been a while, Chester. Maybe it’s time to move on?”
Chester just laughs, humourlessly, “If only it was that easy.”
***
Being back in the studio is horrible. The worst kind of torture, Chester thinks, is being paired up with Brad to work on a song he wrote. It’s his own fucking fault for suggesting to Mike that they work on the guitar pieces. Should have known he’d wind up with Brad.
Brad smiles when Chester hands him the sheet music he and Mike worked on along with the lyrics. Laughs to himself and shakes his head, “I can’t read your writing dude. I could never read your writing.”
And suddenly Chester is in the kitchen of the home they share, writing a note on the fridge. “Gone to Mike’s,” he writes. Then adds, “We need milk.”
Then adds, “Condoms, too.”
Then later he returns and Brad is unpacking groceries. “Milk and what?” He asks, “Your hand writing fucking sucks.”
“Oooh!” Chester laughs, “Sorry Mr UCLA.”
And Brad snorts, leans in and kisses him, then goes back to shoving things haphazardly into the cupboards only for Chester to re-arrange it all again later.
Then he blinks and he’s back in the studio and Brad is looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to start the song.
But he can’t. Because his throat is clenching up and his eyes are burning, “I need some fresh air,” he mumbles and gets up hurriedly, shuffling out of the room.
***
The dreams are the worst. Of what was, of what could have been. Months have passed and he has nobody to talk to anymore. He has assured Mike that he is completely fine without Brad, that he can cope on his own, even though it is a complete lie that anybody could see through.
Alcohol gets rid of the dreams at first, but Rob catches him drinking beer at ten in the morning and frowns, “You know you can’t do that, Chaz,” he says. And for once it’s not a condescending tone, it’s one of understanding. Because Rob has been there, done that and he knows to nip this in the bud whilst he can.
Drugs it is, then. When he isn’t wired he’s taking downers so that he can sleep. Valium knock him into an almost-coma and he dreams of colourless rainbows and a world where he’s happy. Brad isn’t there, though, and he wakes up feeling empty less and less.
But his world is blank. Completely.
Sometimes, though, Chester thinks he’d rather things were colourless than tinged with the bright red that is pain.
Fandom Linkin Park
Prompt Colourless
Words 517
Rating R. Maybe.
Summary Chester would rather his world be colourless than filled with bright hues of pain.
Chester feels alone more often than not. In that in-a-crowd-but-completely-alone kind of way that people always write about in poems, songs. Probably this is because, since he and Brad broke up, there’s just this big empty void. Most of everything he feels is a big fat nothing.
He told Mike about all of this once and Mike just sighed wearily as if Chester was laying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like Atlas carrying the heavens. That’s the way Mike sighed.
“It’s been a while, Chester. Maybe it’s time to move on?”
Chester just laughs, humourlessly, “If only it was that easy.”
***
Being back in the studio is horrible. The worst kind of torture, Chester thinks, is being paired up with Brad to work on a song he wrote. It’s his own fucking fault for suggesting to Mike that they work on the guitar pieces. Should have known he’d wind up with Brad.
Brad smiles when Chester hands him the sheet music he and Mike worked on along with the lyrics. Laughs to himself and shakes his head, “I can’t read your writing dude. I could never read your writing.”
And suddenly Chester is in the kitchen of the home they share, writing a note on the fridge. “Gone to Mike’s,” he writes. Then adds, “We need milk.”
Then adds, “Condoms, too.”
Then later he returns and Brad is unpacking groceries. “Milk and what?” He asks, “Your hand writing fucking sucks.”
“Oooh!” Chester laughs, “Sorry Mr UCLA.”
And Brad snorts, leans in and kisses him, then goes back to shoving things haphazardly into the cupboards only for Chester to re-arrange it all again later.
Then he blinks and he’s back in the studio and Brad is looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to start the song.
But he can’t. Because his throat is clenching up and his eyes are burning, “I need some fresh air,” he mumbles and gets up hurriedly, shuffling out of the room.
***
The dreams are the worst. Of what was, of what could have been. Months have passed and he has nobody to talk to anymore. He has assured Mike that he is completely fine without Brad, that he can cope on his own, even though it is a complete lie that anybody could see through.
Alcohol gets rid of the dreams at first, but Rob catches him drinking beer at ten in the morning and frowns, “You know you can’t do that, Chaz,” he says. And for once it’s not a condescending tone, it’s one of understanding. Because Rob has been there, done that and he knows to nip this in the bud whilst he can.
Drugs it is, then. When he isn’t wired he’s taking downers so that he can sleep. Valium knock him into an almost-coma and he dreams of colourless rainbows and a world where he’s happy. Brad isn’t there, though, and he wakes up feeling empty less and less.
But his world is blank. Completely.
Sometimes, though, Chester thinks he’d rather things were colourless than tinged with the bright red that is pain.