This kind of came out of nowhere.

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"So you're saying you don't like him?"

"I'm saying I'm not sure."

Chester is silent for a while. "...you're wierd, Micheal."

I sigh. "For fuck's sake, Chester, please shut up and let me finish."

"You spend all of your time working on that monstrosity you call art; you can take a few minutes right now to discuss this with me."

"I'm still not sure what we're discussing." I groan a bit and go to erase a smudge. Before the eraser can hit the piece of paper, a pair of hands that no doubt belong to Chester, snatches my sketch book and all my pencils away from me and sets them down on the other side of the mini-table.

"...Chester, give it back."

"Not until you talk to me."

"Give it back, please."

"Being polite will get you nowhere, Mike." I go to ask him once more, but he cuts me off. "How can you not think he's hot?"

"Chester, he's my fucking bandmate!" I glare up at him.

"He's mine too, but that doesn't stop me from jacking off to a mental picture of him fucking me every night."

"Oh, God, you're sick." I lay my head down on the table, close my eyes, and attempt to drive the picture of Rob that Chester has just implanted in my mind, out of it.

"C'mon, Shinoda...you're probably thinking about it right now, aren't you?" Without even looking up at him, I can imagine the look that's on his face.

"I am not," I mumble against the tabletop.

"Are too."

"Not."

"Are."

"Not."

"Are."

"Okay! I am..." And now we all finally know that Micheal Shinoda does not do well under pressure. I open my eyes and glance up at Chester who is smiling. "Stop smiling."

"Why? I finally got you to admit you think Rob is hot."

"I did not say that." I sigh and peel my face off the table, sitting up straight again.

"How does thinking about him fucking you constitute as not thinking he's hot?"

"It just...does." I pause for a moment. "Look, Chester, where the hell is this conversation going?"

"...downhill," he says blandly before turning to leave. I take a second to glance across at my sketch book before calling him back.

"Hey, Chester, wait!"

He walks backwards until he's standing where he was previously.

"Yes?" he asks.

"...you don't really think my art is a monstrosity, do you?"

"Of course not, Micheal." He smiles and scoots my art supplies back over to me. "Anything else?"

"Yes. This conversation does not leave this bus, understand?"

"Cross my heart, hope to kick the bucket, Mike." I furrow my eyebrows at him, but he's already bouncing off the bus to meet the guys at the convenience store we've stopped at.

I sigh and look back toward my drawing. I pick up a pencil only to realize that I had been sketching a picture of a drum set onto the paper.

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Reviews are appreciated. So are bottles of lube, but that's beside the point. :]