Notes: My apologies for writing this couple again, when no-one understands them but myself and my best buddy. Also, I am mulling over making a Mannoko-centered story fic, and would love to get in contact with other fans of hers to discuss their views on her character development, etc. And of the Oyamada family in general, as I am a very big fan of the family's. I have my own theories, but I'm interested in discussing. My email is in my profile (as HTML won't let me put it here. Buggers!) Promise I won't bite!
-Safe from your Song
--
"It seems," noted Wen, with hands coming to rest upon Mannoko's as they danced on the keyboard one night; pale small digits miniscule and splayed across thick metal and plastic. "That you also play an instrument."
"Did I wake you?" Mannoko asked, and he noticed that her eyes were tired, and red, and filmed in watery glaze.
"No."
He wondered then why children would sit before contraptions until tear ducts became swollen and their backs ached from hours of disuse. It came as no surprise that they were irritable; that Mannoko was after nights of being fastened to the object as if she were manufactured with it.
Wen watched as her hands covered keys with learned skill, producing intricate lengths of coding upon the monitor, until his eyes throbbed and he looked away. "It is not unlike music." There were nights when he lay awake absorbed in play. He wanted to ask if her instrument was accompanied with lonesome attachment and a peculiar hidden need. "Tap, tap..." Said Wen, and gave Mannoko a kiss on her arm.
"Tap, tap, tap..." whispered Mannoko, but then her hands and fingers tangled, and a small, half moan was uttered. The laptop snapped together in fluid motion, and was thrust far across the bed. "I've ruined it."
"Oh. It is an unfinished song?" asked Wen.
"It is a destroyed piece of nothing," said Mannoko. He watched as her eyebrows knitted and fell; then as Mannoko hid beneath layers of comforter to mourn her loss. She suddenly seemed very old, and it frightened him.
"I often rework music," Wen found her head and touched it. "Sometimes I am the better for it."
"My eyes hurt."
"Keep them closed."
He listened as Mannoko's great heaves of breath balanced into soothing sleep, and with a subtle push his feet nudged the laptop farther away. His instrument was a reminder, but children had no need to be old. Not Mannoko. It was then that he hid beneath the covers with her, and protected her from her music.