I DO NOT OWN MIYAVI NOR AM I AFFILIATED WITH HIM IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM!! I'm just a fan with a creative imagination!

After being encouraged by somebody in a chat room on (thanks willkillforcookies), I've decided to continue this into a series. Originally, I planned to just do something that had enough words so I could sign up to be a beta reader, but I'm still short on the requirements, plus I have an idea on how to continue this story. I tried to keep it as anonymous as possible so that the fan can get into the girls shoes as much as possible without having to see somebody else where the fan should be. Kind of like a first person story, but without the annoying first person talking. I WANTED the third person narrator. However, I will NOT be able to keep the story with her anonymous after the first chapter... sorry if you liked it that way... NOTE I own the story and the characters EXCEPTING Miyavi, I am NOT affiliated with him in any way shape or form beyond a fan.

She was in love. Not in the strictest sense of the word though. Not at this time of her realization. No, in reality, she wasn't in love with the man, or so she told herself. True, he was quite beautiful. His face was smooth and unblemished, putting pretty girls to shame. His whole aura oozed of sex appeal even. Even some boy's swooned at the sight of him. His music had captured her soul a long time ago... However; none of these things were what had captured her so strongly that night.

Slowly, she went over what it wasn't, that had caught her interest. A mans music does not always reflect what is in a man's heart. This she had realized a long time ago by ways she chose not to remember. No, it was not his sex appeal, which made all the other girls around her squirm with pleasure. It was not his face, which created light hearts to skip beats.

She wondered while watching him... what was it that held this girl, three years his junior, riveted in her spot. She almost believed that it was his smile, but she quickly realized that that wasn't what held her attention. She briefly played with the idea that it was his eye's, that twinkled whenever they looked towards her in the crowd, but then she realized he was laughing at the person behind her that was dressed up as a giant onigiri.

Suddenly, he tapped out the beginnings of his next song deftly with his fingers. As if his instrument was not a guitar, but a drum, or a bongo, instead. Her heart flipped. He slapped the neck of his guitar, with one hand, in time with his tapping of the body with his other hand. Her heart flopped. Surely, she thought to herself. Surely this was what made her want to go up to him and pat his hand as if a wife soothing a troubled husband.

The girl watched his hands intently. Silently, inwardly, crying because of what she couldn't do for him. Her thoughts were so focused on the pain she knew he was in that she didn't realize that tears had formed in her eyes and were running down her face. The only thing she realized was that he smiled at her for a brief moment, and then frowned deeply the next.

He was intrigued. Whenever he could, his eyes roamed over to her face in the crowd. Her frown was as intense as her eyes. Why was she frowning at him? He couldn't believe that his music wasn't reaching her. How could anybody not be moved by a song that he had put his heart into? Maybe it wasn't him, he argued with himself. Maybe she was constipated. He laughed to himself

His hands ached from the lack of warming up before the show. He cursed himself for being so forgetful, but moved onto the next song anyway, pretending there wasn't any pain. He would never forgive himself if he did anything less than his best that night. His left hand slid up the neck of the guitar as his right hand kept the beat. Making the instrument cry out in pain, or in pleasure, was what he lived for. His hands cramped up on the next chord.

He stole a quick look towards her. Her eyes were shimmering. He smiled a cheesy grin her way. He looked again and saw a dark track down her cheek. Something was wrong. He frowned and looked harder at her. Why was she crying? A reality check came on when his hands refused to play, luckily, the drummer behind him deftly picked up where he had left off of tapping. He sighed inwardly reminding himself that the show must go on, no matter how much his hands froze up. Looking again, his eye was pulled towards the onigiri costume, which suddenly fell to the floor.

"Hey guys, move back a little bit! Are you ok? Are you ok? Ok? Good!"

She wasn't the one the vocalist was speaking to. Everyone knew the vocalist was talking to onigiri person behind her that had suddenly collapsed. But for a moment, she had thought that HE had been looking at her. She wiped the tear stains away from her face, afraid he had seen them.

The end of the concert had come. She was the last one out of the bathroom, trying to scrub the stains and red away. Coming out of the bathroom, she realized that she was also the last fan in the concert hall. She climbed the stairs, towards the exit. Halfway up the staircase, a voice called out to her.

"OI!"

Turning, she saw the most beautiful, most tattooed, most colorful, most sweaty, most unapproachable man she'd ever seen, walking towards her. She froze as she recognized him.

Concerned about what over possessive fans would do, he beckoned her back down the stairs, away from the exits, away from where all the fans could see them. Not knowing what else to do, she followed him back into the main room where the concert had been not 15 minutes ago. They were not alone, but because the staff was still busy with breaking down the equipment, they might as well have been. He led her over to the bar and motioned for her to sit on a stool as he sat down. For lack of a better place to look, and not wanting to make eye contact, she studied the watermarks on the counter, slowly tracing the lines with one of her fingertips.

"Daijoubu desuka?"

She looked up at him, startled out of her shyness. Blinking, she suddenly realized who she was looking at, and he was looking right back at her. Blushing, she allowed her eyes to drop to her lap, breaking her eye contact with him, whilst noticing a small tear, about the length of a quarter, near the outer thigh of her pants. She fiddled with the hole, making it bigger, trying to remember what little Japanese she knew.

"Eto... aru yo oh kay?"

She stuck her finger into the hole, which had now become approximately the length of a bar of soap. She barely noticed what her hands were doing as her eyes studied his hands, which seemed to be almost formed into the guitar position. She knew instantly that he was still in pain.

Believing his English was crappier than he had realized, he looked despairingly around for his official translator.

"Daijoubu desu, i'm fine, thank you. Um, arigatou gozaimas" her reply was low and quiet.

He grinned for a moment, finally hearing her voice, but then remembered the stains that he saw on her face during the concert. Frowning with concern, he took her chin in hand and checked her face for the lines he was sure he would see there. The only things he saw, though, were two, bright pink cheeks, turning redder by the moment. She looked him in the eye then, startling him in a way that made him drop his hand quickly. He panicked, thinking that he had insulted her somehow.

Slowly, as if she were afraid of scaring a fragile kitten, she boldly, yet gingerly, took his right hand in hers and gently rubbed the back of it as if she were petting that fragile kitten.

He was slightly taken aback when she reached out for him, and yet, her cool, soft fingertips in his sweaty, rough, callused palm were comforting more than disconcerting. He almost pulled away, but her hand held firmly on as she slowly started to massage his fingertips.

"What about you? Are you all right? ...um, daijoubu desuka?" she asked.

His eyes widened and then relaxed as he realized that she was probably more afraid of him than he was of her. It didn't make sense that he be afraid of a fan. Sure, he'd had more than his fair share of over zealous fans, he even knew he had a stalker or two, but he wasn't afraid of them like he was of her. Her power, it was disconcerting. Wincing a bit, he sat back in his stool to allow her to continue squeezing, rubbing, and pinching his hands.

"Arigatou..."

She smiled at his thanks. To help his sore hands to unclench, she took off his rings, and, as gently as possible, slowly pulled each finger out to an almost straight position. She then continued with her task of rubbing and pinching until each his fingers easily moved of their own free will. The ever so slight pain he felt, as she worked through his tensed muscles, was well worth it by the time she was done. Only about 10 minutes had elapsed since she started massaging his right hand, but that had been all the time she needed. She then started working at his left hand.

The whole time she was there, at the bar, no one really stopped working to notice what was happening. They all knew that she was there, just as she was aware of them. She didn't want to think about what they thought, because she just didn't care at that moment. All that was on her mind at that very moment, in her life, was his thin talented hands. She knew, somewhere in her heart, that that was all he was thinking about as well.

Just as slowly as she had eased the ache in his muscles, she started to smile. She couldn't help herself. Stealing a glance she saw his eyes were shut, she looked up at him openly so that she could memorize the moment. Knowing that no one would ever believe her, nor would she want anyone to know that she had gotten this close to him, she continued. She knew she had given him something so, so intimate, so in the moment, so special and private. She was happy. She was happy that this one small moment in time, with him, was hers alone and no one else's. She looked down and concentrated on his hands again.

He kept his eyes only half shut. Not wanting to let her know that he was watching her just as intently, if not more so. Her small smile went from quiet and shy, to bold and cheesy within moments. He liked her shy smile, but her cheesy grin was a part of her that he wouldn't have dismissed for the world. As she looked down again, he noticed her eyes were shimmering. He closed his own eyes for a moment, but snapped them open quickly when he felt something warm and wet on his skin. He understood, then, why her eyes had seemed to shimmer. He jerked himself away from her then and studied his hand.

Bemused, she yelped at his unexpected action and looked up at his face. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at some water on his hand. She froze, realizing that he had noticed what she had not. He had seen the misplaced tear on the back of his hand, where the thumb and his pointer finger met. She stared at it dumbly, her eyes filling up as he brought his attention back to her. The moment had been broken.

"Doshite naite imasu ka?" he asked. She didn't respond. "Ano... why aru yo crying?" she shook her head, unable to respond.

Why, oh why was she upset? He didn't understand. His confusion bothered him. Her tears bothered him. She had still been smiling when she was crying. Now, her smile was gone, and she was crying even harder. Why did he let this girl to him so easily? She was just a girl. Just another fan, he reminded his self. Heck, he didn't even know her name! He became irritated that he should get so worked up about some girl that wasn't even that pretty. She was NOT cute when she cried, he argued with himself. Her face scrunched up and went dark red, she didn't seem to breathe, but her tears kept coming. He watched her cover her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. He became even angrier at himself then, when he realized that he had thought, for even a moment, that she wasn't beautiful. He thought all of this and more within a millisecond of time. He froze as it dawned on him that, whatever it was she was crying about was probably because of something he did.

She watched the emotions flit across his face, one after another. First the confusion, then the irritation, then, a darkness she had never seen on his face in any picture or video footage. What shocked her most however, was the pain she watched take over his face as she let out a small sob. Embarrassed that he should see her break down, she got up and darted towards the exits. She didn't get very far before a hand grabbed her wrist. The pursuer, a young Japanese girl she didn't recognize, was holding her away from where she wanted to run to. She looked where she was being tugged towards. She looked at her captor with a question on her face as to why she was being pulled to the stage, away from the exits.

Not knowing what else to do, and being completely drained from that night's concert, she followed. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw that he was still frozen where she had left him. The staff girl kept pulling her until they were behind the stage and in a hallway. The Japanese girl gave her a cursory look before scowling.

"You'll leave through the back exit!" startled by the girls perfect English, she stared at her dumbly. "He wouldn't like it if you were attacked by jealousy crazed fans..." nodding in understanding she followed obediently down the hallway. "By the way, I'm the translator... oh, even if I don't want to say this, thank you. Whatever you did, it relaxed him. I haven't seen him that laid back after a show in quite a while."

As they came to the end of the long hall, they both heard footsteps behind them at the same time. Another staff member, a guy, came running up and said something much to fast for her to catch. The translator said something back just as quickly, looking annoyed. They argued for a moment until finally the man looked triumphant and the translator quite annoyed. She folded her arms and refused move until he was done with whatever he needed to do.

The translator spoke, without looking at her. "Miyavi wants to give you something as gratitude, and he wants you to know that he's sorry if he upset you somehow." quizzically, she looked at the translator, who looked like she wanted to glare her into the ground, and then she looked back at the man who had run up behind them.

Not knowing what else to do, she looked up at the young man expectantly. The man looked at her for a moment before shoving something into her the bone weary hand. It was some sort of paper, slightly damp and crinkled as if it had been crushed in a fist quickly. Before she could look at it any further, her petite guide and translator shoved her out into the crisp cold evening air, and closed the door behind her.