Maya's eyes open, and he stares. The November air around him is cold and he realizes, after a moment, that he didn't turn the heater on before they went to bed.
So he stares.
He stares deeply at the sleeping figure next to him. He stares for all the days that he's wasted. For all the notes that he's played. For all the words that he's spoken.
Miyavi breathes softly next to him, oblivious to Maya's intense stare, oblivious to the cold sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the sheets that had been thrown to the ground in their haste.
The clock on the nightstand blinks a disagreeable 8:14 AM, and Maya scoots closer to the sleeping Miyavi, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Miyavi wakes slowly to this interlude, wrapping his arms around Maya as he becomes conscious that he's there. Tighter, when he remembers what day it is.
The today, the Saturday, that Miyavi's leaving to go on tour for two months. Normally this wouldn't be a concern for the two, but now, Maya isn't allowed to accompany him. Not anymore. Those days are over, according to the record company.
"Good morning," Miyavi whispers, leaving the words hanging like ghosts in the morning air.
"Is it?" Maya's voice is muffled by Miyavi's skin, but it's like a slap in the face to Miyavi. It takes him a moment to reply.
"No. No, it's not. Mayatan, your nose is cold."
"I know."
Miyavi can feel the outline of a smile against his neck, but it fades rather quickly. Maya begins to untangle himself from Miyavi's arms and sits on the edge of the bed, leaning his head in his hands. Miyavi watches him for a moment before sliding out of bed and creeping up in front of Maya, peering up at him and catching him in a kiss and pushing him backward onto the bed. Maya curls, childlike, against Miyavi's body.
They stay like this until Maya can't stand it anymore.
"Michan..." He pushes the tattooed man gently off of him. "Miyavi.."
Miyavi knows that tone of voice. "What?"
Maya sits up again and stands to search for the pants that had been so haphazardly discarded the night before. He finds them, pulls them on, and stands with his hands on his hips across the room from Miyavi, a painful expression on his face.
"What?" Miyavi repeats. "Is something wrong..?"
"Yes. No. Uugh." Maya makes a frustrated noise and he moves around the room again, searching for his shirt.
"Just say it, Mayatan."
Maya looks at him again.
"Miyavi, I'm going to.. I'm going to move out."
A thousand years pass in that one moment, and Miyavi feels someone reach down his throat and grope around for his heart.
"What?"
"You heard me, Michan. I'm going to move out."
Maya pulls on his shirt and leans against the wall across the room from Miyavi.
"Mayatan, of all the--"
"No, don't even, please. I've thought it over already." Maya puts his hand up to silence.
The hand around Miyavi's heart tightens.
"You're going to be gone a lot, and I am too. I'm already going to be needed in a different part of the city. I'm not your guitarist anymore." Maya turns around and faces the wall, his tone of voice changing completely, shrinking to a whisper. "I'm not your girlfriend."
Miyavi says nothing. He does nothing.
But the hand reaching down his throat has found his heart, and it's beating on the floor in front of him.
