Title: Metamorphosis
Author: Mellodramattic
Pairings: Miyavi/melody.
Warnings: Slight angst, confusing ending.
Summary: The very first time he met her, he knew, and she knew, and the electricity nearly burned them.
Disclaimer: I do not own Miyavi, melody, or their child. I merely write drabble fics.
METAMORPHOSIS
by Mellodramattic
It was his child.
The scream of punk-rock guitar ripped through the dark, still hotel room: a cruel, unmelodious tangle of musical destruction, and yet his fingers harmoniously stroked the strings, and the instrument sang for him -- Dear my love.
The very first time he had performed on a stage, he had been intoxicated with the magical devotion of that sacred area where he lost himself and became god, became Ore-sama.
The very first time he had made love to a woman, he had become intoxicated with the sheer power he commanded, and had become so afraid of it that he had stuck to kissing boys only.
The very first time he met her, he knew, and she knew, and the electricity nearly burned them.
He wondered vaguely if it would be like him -- slightly insane, gravity-defying hair stained in technicolor, the addiction to music. He wondered if it would be ashamed of him, embarrassed at all the shit he'd pulled since he was seventeen: the photo shoots, the hyperactive comments, the fanservice. He worried about tours, and how he would manage his career and his family and the new label. And then he wondered instead if it would be like her--
She was a sweet girl, quiet and accepting; and when they appeared together in public, she drew no attention to herself, but rather hummed to their darling and smiled with her eyes. She was beautiful, undeniably so, but he loved her instead for the space she gave him when he sought solitude, for the tenderness in her touch when she handled his instruments, for the tea she quietly brought him when he was frustrated (and for which she expected no payment). And finally, after all those fangirl-pleasing kisses, he felt happy.
Unconsciously his fingers began to develop a melody, a simple five-chord progression whose variations ranged softer and softer. It was a lullaby, he realized, and smiled through the dark -- it was his lullaby to it. Finally he felt responsibility,m maturity, and -- he noticed with a bitter laugh -- old age. He had always loved children, and now that he was to have a child, he could only dream of the future.
Quietly he laid down his guitar. Quietly he stood and walked out of the hotel room. Quietly he said goodbye to MYV, and took out his piercings.
