Category Linkin Park

just come over here and sit next to me (i'll take you high) by frostfall


Title from "Sit Next To Me" by Foster The People.


It's seven in the morning and all Mike wants to do is sleep.

But sleep means missing his stop. And missing his stop means certain death. He has learnt not to be late for Rubin's class the hard way.

Just the thought of it irks him.

Mike enjoys taking the train to class. The ride always relaxes him. There's something about the soft lull of the train on tracks, the quiet murmurs of his fellow occupants.

His stop slowly approaches. Mike blinks the sleep from his eyes and gets to his feet, ready to leave.

Sleep will have to wait until later. Most likely during the weekends.

Maybe not even then, thanks to the constant flow of projects and assignments coming his way.

The doors open. Mike drags his feet to uncertainty.


He notices him one early morning on a Wednesday.

It's storming outside, harsh raindrops pounding against the window pane and Mike is shivering, his soaked T-shirt clinging to his chest a little too tightly as he grasps onto the pole.

For a seven am ride, there are more people on-board than usual. Mike assumes it’s due to the heavy downpour outside.

Several passengers to his left openly stare, their leering or judgmental gazes lingering longer than they should. It makes him uncomfortable and a little annoyed. It isn't like he’s the only drenched person on the train.

He shoots them a glare. A couple of them quickly turn away, the rest displaying puzzled looks.

Or maybe they weren’t and his lack of his daily caffeine intake and the unbearable feeling of wearing wet clothes were just messing with his brain.

But oh well.

The train halts at his stop, doors opening to let in and out hermits on their way to their destinations. Mike stays put, his stop only after a couple more away.

That's when he notices him, a passing blur that spikes his curiosity.

The man stumbles over to one of the newly vacant seats, as drenched as Mike. Grasping the handrails with one hand, the other lifts the hood off his head, revealing a buzzcut.

He’s beautiful.

Mike immediately turns away, his cheeks beginning to heat up.

What the fuck was that thought?

Someone like Mike isn't supposed to look at someone as good-looking as him, a stranger. But he couldn't help but steal one final glance.

And that's when their eyes meet.

Brown. Brown like the shade of the warmest chocolate.

Mike’s eyes dart away, partially wishing that the ground under his feet would disappear right then.

After what seems like a year and much focus on his damp shoes, the train finally pauses at his stop. Mike hurries away.

He could feel the man’s eyes on him as he steps out. The feeling doesn’t disappear until the train pulls away.

His eyes are seared in his head for the rest of the day.

Thankfully, the man’s not on the ride home. But those eyes continue to haunt Mike, even in his dreams.


He can't.


Based on Mike’s observations, the man rides it on weekdays at the same ungodly hour of the morning.

Sometimes, the man has earphones on, scrolling through his phone while nodding to a melody only he can hear.

Sometimes, he has his nose in an old paperback, his drooping glasses being occasionally pushed back.

Sometimes, he watches the passing trees and the rising sun while continuously folding and unfolding his sleeves, his colourful tattoos shining under the dim lighting.

He’s always sitting in the same seat at one end of his carriage, Mike on the other. Several times he almost moves to sit next to him but he immediately squashes that idea. Other times Mike hopes he would sit next to him.

He never does. It's like all the gods in existence are reminding him how unattainable the man is.

But that doesn't stop him from wondering on the possibility that they could have something.


"Who's he?"

Mike jerks up like he has been burnt. Brad is giving him a knowing smirk.

Mike frowns at him. "I don't―I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're spluttering," Brad coos. "Your cheeks are red. Who’s he? Boyfriend?"

Mike rolls his eyes, trying hard to ignore the increasing heat radiating from his cheeks. "Don't be stupid. He’s not―"

“Dude, you got a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me? How could you―?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Mike hisses, maybe a little too loudly. He shoots the onlookers a glare. They quickly turn their focus back to the lecture.

"You have been sketching faces of the same guy on your notebook for the past week so forgive me if I thought you got a boyfriend." Brad leans towards Mike, craning his neck to sneak peeks at the drawings. Mike wrinkles his nose at the sudden whiff of Brad’s hairspray. "He sure has a nice smile. And hot. I can see why you like him."

God, take him now.

Mike tears the page full of sketches off his notebook and crumples it. He makes a mental note of redoing the sketches in his sketchbook. "He's―he's just some guy I saw. On the train."

"You spoke to him?"

Mike shakes his head.

"Why not?"

He blinks. "I just can't―I can't―"

"Yes. You can."





He sighs. "What do you want me to do? Walk up to him and be like, 'Hey there, I'm the guy who has been infatuated with you since you stepped onto the train and has been staring creepily at you for the past month.'? Do you know how creepy that sounds?"

"Well, you can always trade the infatuated part with 'wanting to bend you over a table and―'"

Mike makes a disgusted sound. "Brad."

Brad shrugs. "What? Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed his mind."

It didn't at all. But now that he mentioned it...

Mike violently shakes his head. He probably needs to be baptized after this.

"Why do I even put up with you?"

"Because I'm your best friend?"

Mike cringes. "Unfortunately."

Brad's smirk widens. "This is freaking hilarious. The great Mike Shinoda, head over heels over some―"

"One more word about him from your mouth and I swear―"

And that's when Rubin's chalk hits Mike square on the nose.


On a particular Monday, Mike doesn't get off at his stop, partially because he is gathering the courage to finally speak to the man.

Mostly because he wants to see where the train takes his stranger to.

But Mike gets off the next one at the last minute, rushing out of the doors, fueled by relief and disappointment at his inaction.

He ends up being late for class, Rubin gives him a lecture on punctuality, and all he wants is the whole room to swallow him up because there is no way he is going to make it out of this semester alive.

After he makes sure Rubin isn’t looking, Mike bangs his head on the desk with a soft groan.

What a shitty day this has been turning out to be.

He feels somebody patting his back. It’s probably Brad. Good ol’ Brad.


The shitty day turns into a shitty week and Mike curses himself for wanting to get close to an angel before deciding flinging himself down to hell was the better option.


There's a party held on campus again (and that's just one of the many he hears of for the rest of the week). Brad decides to haul his ass out to "loosen him up".

Which Mike disagrees because he is just fine and is functioning pretty well for a person who's going through one of the worst weeks of his life. He managed to be late for his usual train twice and lost his favourite scarf a couple days ago.

And it’s a fucking Sunday. Who parties on a fucking Sunday night?

Much to Mike's surprise, the party is tame for a frat party. Nobody starts doing body shots or orgies yet.

Then again, the night is still young.

Mike sighs as he makes his way out of the house an hour later for some fresh air. There is so much booze, EDM, and sweaty bodies he could take.

He’s about to decide to leave the party altogether and get some goddamn sleep for once when a familiar figure catches his eyes.

He's sitting with his back towards Mike on the front steps, a lit cigarette between his fingers. Despite being autumn, he’s dressed in a sleeveless shirt, his inked arms gleaming under the porch light.

It's him. The stranger from the train. Mike could recognize his tattoos anywhere.

If Mike knew better, he should've ignored his presence. But like the first time he saw him and the many trips following then, he can’t.

He finds himself slowly making his way next to the man. He doesn't seem to notice Mike, his attention transfixed on the manicured lawn sprawled before them.

"Not much for parties too, huh?"

It’s a wonder that Mike manages to speak at all. His nerves were threatening to consume him whole.

The man turns around, surprise etched onto his face. "You!"

Mike blinks, suddenly self-conscious. "Me?"

“Yeah, man. We take the same train together every weekday.”

Mike’s cheeks begin to heat up. “Uh, well I―”

His stranger lets out a laugh. It’s the most melodic sound Mike has ever heard. “Don’t worry about it. If it makes you feel better, I check you out too.”

Mike’s heart feels like bursting out of his chest. Somebody kill him now.

“Oh yeah, I just remembered.” The man unwraps the scarf around his neck before offering it to him. “I was going to return it to you on Monday,” he says bashfully. “Sorry about wearing it. It looked comfortable so I thought...why not?”

Mike stares at it before gingerly taking it. Of course his favourite scarf that he thought he lost forever was going to end up in the hands of his stranger from the train. Of fucking course.

It smells of nicotine and citrus. Suddenly he feels heady. He doesn’t know how he managed to spit out his gratitude with the overstimulation. He even manages to let out a “I’m Mike" and a handshake.

God sure does work in mysterious ways. Or gods. Whatever.

“Chester,” the man says, meeting him halfway. “Nice to meet you.”

Silence washes over them. Mike is torn on leaving to hide under the security of his covers and screaming to oblivion to jumping the man right there and then when Chester breaks the silence.

"Say, do you want to get out of here?"

Something that feels like a smile crosses Mike’s lips. He wills himself to stop shaking like an idiot. "Thought you'd never ask," he replies before burying his face into his scarf.

Why, oh why is this happening to him?

But Chester lets out a soft chuckle that doesn’t sound demeaning or the like and Mike slowly feels himself at ease. He’s glad one of them finds him endearing.


Chester brings him to a nearby bar, which isn't too bad. The drinks are fine, and there aren't many patrons frequenting it. It's nice and quiet, just the way Mike likes it.

They talk about everything under the sun, from their studies (Chester is an English major at a neighbouring university, Mike in fine arts) to music tastes (Mike’s heart is in hip-hop, Chester’s is in rock but he doesn’t judge unlike most of Mike’s acquaintances).

And it’s nice. He’s nice. And carries a conversation well. And has a wonderful laugh.

And beautiful.

And Mike finds himself hoping he gets to see him again as Chester Bennington, and not just 'his stranger on the train'.

They ride the train back in companionable silence. With each passing stop, Mike’s heart sinks at the thought of the night coming to a close.

He doesn’t know why. It’s not like they won’t see each other again and they exchanged phone numbers for god’s sake.

Which reminds him, Mike needs to text Brad back to confirm that he isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.

“This is me,” Chester’s voice interrupts his thoughts. Mike’s heart thumps quietly, thoughts of Brad suddenly forgotten.

His disappointment must have been blatant because Chester’s lips curl into a bright smile. Mike couldn’t help but think how beautiful it is. “Unless you wanna stay over? I don’t know where you live but well, if you want to…”

Mike wrestles down his excitement.


It's seven in the morning and all Mike wants to do is sleep.

But sleep means missing his stop. And missing his stop means certain death. He has learnt not to be late for Rubin's class the hard way.

Just the thought of it irks him.

Suddenly it hits Mike like a ton of bricks that he’s so so so fucking late and goddamn it, Rubin is going to kill him. He’s about to pull the covers away when a hand tugs him back down on the bed.

“Dude,” Chester murmurs sleepily next to him. “Just five more minutes.”

Mike is obviously tempted to do just that. There's something about Chester’s groggy voice and droopy eyelids that makes him want to kiss him senseless.

“I’ll be late for class if I don’t get going,” Mike reluctantly begins.

Chester smirks, suddenly looking more alert. “I don't think your lecturer would mind if you were five minutes late, would he?"


Mike ends up being an hour late. Unsurprisingly, Rubin does mind, spending a whole ten minutes yelling at him in front of everybody.

For the first time ever, Mike doesn’t give a fuck.

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