#5. Anger , MiyavixUruha
Title: Making Music
Author: nemo_the_nomad
Theme: #5. Anger
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairing: Miyavi x Uruha
Band[s]: solo/skin x the GazettE
Disclaimer: NOT MINE.
Comments: It’s a multiparter! Uh oh…
Making Music
Part One
NOTES: flashbacks are in italics
He didn’t know where the beer had been bought or why the particular flavor had been chosen over all others, but he did know what noise it made when it was thrown against the kitchen wall, or carelessly pushed from the top of the kitchen table. And that was enough for him. It was enough to show everyone, or if no one else, then Uruha.
Miyavi glared at the clear blue glass pieces shattered around the kitchen he sat in and the reddish fluid that clung to the glass, the tiled floor. He was so frustrated, but no matter what he did, no matter whom he told, no one would truly understand him. They would nod and hum like they knew what he was going through, as if they had been with him in the accident, as if they had had their vocal cords severed. As if it were their entire musical career that was in shambles, thrown away because of one negligent driver falling asleep behind the wheel.
The brunette’s cheeks flushed hotly as he remembered waking up in the hospital weeks after the accident had taken place, the pain in his throat and the tubes running the length of his body. He raised his right hand slowly, gently, hesitantly grazing the still fresh scar that ran from his right ear, under his jaw, and then between the dip in his throat. Miyavi clenched his eyes closed, jerking his hand away as he fisted it in his lap.
“So I’m assuming the beer wasn’t to your liking this time?” Uruha joked softly, coming to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. He eyed the glass bits that littered the floor and sighed inwardly at the mess he would clean later that evening. It wasn’t okay that Miyavi did it, but…some days were bad days and acknowledging a wrong would only make things worse, and Uruha didn’t want Miyavi shutting him out for the rest of the evening. “It’s okay, German beer isn’t all that great anyway,” Uruha smirked as he saw the slight movement of Miyavi’s left foot. Good, he’s listening then. “I always preferred a good cold glass of vodka any day of the week.” When he didn’t receive a reply Uruha carefully maneuvered around the damage the brunette had done to his kitchen and stood behind the chair in which Miyavi sat. Uruha ran his fingers through Miyavi’s hair briskly, brushing back the long strands so as to see what he could of Miyavi’s face without interference. But instead of grabbing the other’s face, as he would have done not six months ago, Uruha swiftly changed his directory and settled his hands upon stiff shoulders.
Uruha started with small, shallow circles with his thumbs against the tense muscle. Once he felt the release of one of the knots he began to move his fingers forward and back as his thumbs continued their circular motion. Uruha smiled. Miyavi never would have admitted it, but as much a he liked to touch other people, he hated to be touched in return unless he deemed the other person safe in his personal space. Miyavi really was an odd one, but only recently did he start to exhibit “unhealthy behavior” as the doctor had put it. But what would anyone else do otherwise if their whole world were turned upside down as Miyavi’s had been? Sit quietly and let it turn?
Miyavi didn’t want to learn sign language. He didn’t want to sleep most of the time and unless Uruha or the brunette’s sister forced him, Miyavi would stay awake for days until exhaustion pushed him to bed. Miyavi wouldn’t get into a car and Uruha couldn’t find fault in the other’s animosity towards the machines for he would have felt the same way if the last time he rode in a car was the last time he would have ever been able to play his guitar again. But what irked Uruha the most, of all of Miyavi’s newer habits, was the way he would break anything he held when he had a fit. But the doctor had said that it would be the norm for a while. How long that norm would be, the doctor couldn’t say, but Uruha was growing tired of it. He had only so many glasses, beers, and lamps. Thank god he didn’t go for the TV…
Uruha’s hands fell back as Miyavi shrugged his shoulders in agitation. He stood quickly, stepping purposefully on the glass pieces as he stumbled into the living room, falling hard to his knees as the pain in his feet became too much. Uruha glared at the fallen man, stomping around the glass to reach the brunette who cringed silently upon the matted floor. “Stop being fucking stupid and hurting yourself,” Uruha hissed, bending down and grabbing Miyavi’s arm as he pulled Miyavi to his chest. Miyavi struggled, punching at Uruha as the blonde lifted Miyavi from the floor with an effort and took him into the bathroom through their bedroom. “Stop it!” Uruha shouted as he awkwardly dropped his heavy burden on the toilet.
Miayvi glared back at Uruha, clenching his hands against the side of the counter top in pain as Uruha brought out the rubbing alcohol and gauze that had become a regular item to buy on the monthly grocery run. When Uruha grabbed at Miyavi’s right foot the brunette punched him in the jaw, eyes wide and defiant as Uruha jerked back at the punch. The blonde gritted his teeth and wrenched the other’s foot to rest upon his knee as he set about extracting the glass.
*
“Uruha, you should stop shaving your face for awhile,” Miyavi laughed as the blonde glanced over at him incredulously. “I’m serious, dude! Don’t shave for a couple days and see how everyone feels about it,” he said with fervor, nodding as he thought over the idea. When he still received a raised brow for his efforts, Miyavi sighed dramatically, shaking the other’s shoulder as the TV show went to commercial. “See, if your band mates notice then they’re too into you’re appearance and want to fuck you, but if they could care less and don’t say anything until someone on the staff does then you don’t have to worry about it.”
Uruha howled in laughter, thinking of Reita or Ruki or, god forbid, Aoi coming onto him. He just couldn’t believe that they would be like that, ever. Miyavi punched his shoulder, grinning at Uruha’s dimpled laughter. “I’m serious!” The blonde just shook his head as the movie started again, dismissing the command to out his band mates. Ridiculous. Miyavi started to hum then, singing one of his newer, more favored songs as he flopped against Uruha on the couch, waiting patiently for the other’s arm to wrap around his shoulders, as he was usually accustomed to do when he wanted to be held. Uruha rolled his eyes, throwing his arm around the bony shoulders as he used his other hand to muffle the loud humming interrupting his movie. “Shut it,” Uruha hissed non-threateningly, shaking the brunette as he laughed into the blonde’s palm.
*
Uruha awoke early the following morning, grimacing at the radiant light that assaulted his eyes through the blinds. Miyavi was curled against his back, chilling toes wedged between the bed and Uruha’s legs. No matter how badly they would argue the night before Miyavi would always end up plastered to Uruha’s back the morning after, seeking the warmth that the blonde always emitted. Uruha sighed quietly as he began to untangle himself from the bed and Miyavi’s arms.
*
“What kind of beer do you like?”
Uruha frowned, thinking of a popular beer he might have had recently. “Heineken?” Miyavi laughed, smacking the blonde on the back as they walked to their separate studios in the office. “You’re such a liar,” the brunette accused as they dodged one of the messenger runners flying down the hall. “You don’t even know what a Heineken tastes like you vodka whore!”
Uruha grunted, nodding as he rested his hand against his chin solemnly, “I’ve been disgustingly deprived of a good German beer for so long.” Uruha then grinned, ruffling Miyavi’s longish hair as he shouted, “Thank God!” Miyavi remained calm as his hair was fluffed continuously and some of the office workers looked over at them strangely, before pushing Uruha into the wall roughly. Uruha flailed briefly, watching the slight curve that appeared along Miyavi’s lips as the other continued to walk briskly to his studio room.
“Little shit…” Uruha murmured as he pushed of the wall and continued his trek as he saw Miyavi’s figure disappear into one of the many rooms along the hall. And as Uruha passed the room Miyavi had entered he smirked as he heard the declaration shouted at his back, “Yes you have!”
*
“Don’t forget your appointment today at three, okay?” Uruha waited for some kind of hand motion from the prone figure under the covers on the bed. When Miyavi didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash Uruha rubbed at his eyes tiredly, walking into the room to stand before the bed. “Hey,” he said and kicked at the mattress. Miyavi opened his eyes slowly to stare up into Uruha’s gaze. Golden hazel to dark, doe brown. “Don’t forget, okay? There’s money for lunch on the counter in the kitchen. I…” Uruha hesitated, forgetting himself in the bottomless pit that seemed to consist of Miyavi’s eyes. “I might…be a little late. So don’t wait up for me and make something for yourself for dinner.” Uruha leaned down for a moment, closing in on the brunette’s chapped lips, before straightening abruptly at the pained pleading look Miayvi gave to him. Uruha looked away, rubbing the back of his head as he fisted his other hand to his side. “Umm…I’ll see ya later, ’kay?” And then he was leaving the apartment; almost running in his haste to leave. When did he start to fear his own home?
Author: nemo_the_nomad
Theme: #5. Anger
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairing: Miyavi x Uruha
Band[s]: solo/skin x the GazettE
Disclaimer: NOT MINE.
Comments: It’s a multiparter! Uh oh…
Making Music
Part One
NOTES: flashbacks are in italics
He didn’t know where the beer had been bought or why the particular flavor had been chosen over all others, but he did know what noise it made when it was thrown against the kitchen wall, or carelessly pushed from the top of the kitchen table. And that was enough for him. It was enough to show everyone, or if no one else, then Uruha.
Miyavi glared at the clear blue glass pieces shattered around the kitchen he sat in and the reddish fluid that clung to the glass, the tiled floor. He was so frustrated, but no matter what he did, no matter whom he told, no one would truly understand him. They would nod and hum like they knew what he was going through, as if they had been with him in the accident, as if they had had their vocal cords severed. As if it were their entire musical career that was in shambles, thrown away because of one negligent driver falling asleep behind the wheel.
The brunette’s cheeks flushed hotly as he remembered waking up in the hospital weeks after the accident had taken place, the pain in his throat and the tubes running the length of his body. He raised his right hand slowly, gently, hesitantly grazing the still fresh scar that ran from his right ear, under his jaw, and then between the dip in his throat. Miyavi clenched his eyes closed, jerking his hand away as he fisted it in his lap.
“So I’m assuming the beer wasn’t to your liking this time?” Uruha joked softly, coming to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. He eyed the glass bits that littered the floor and sighed inwardly at the mess he would clean later that evening. It wasn’t okay that Miyavi did it, but…some days were bad days and acknowledging a wrong would only make things worse, and Uruha didn’t want Miyavi shutting him out for the rest of the evening. “It’s okay, German beer isn’t all that great anyway,” Uruha smirked as he saw the slight movement of Miyavi’s left foot. Good, he’s listening then. “I always preferred a good cold glass of vodka any day of the week.” When he didn’t receive a reply Uruha carefully maneuvered around the damage the brunette had done to his kitchen and stood behind the chair in which Miyavi sat. Uruha ran his fingers through Miyavi’s hair briskly, brushing back the long strands so as to see what he could of Miyavi’s face without interference. But instead of grabbing the other’s face, as he would have done not six months ago, Uruha swiftly changed his directory and settled his hands upon stiff shoulders.
Uruha started with small, shallow circles with his thumbs against the tense muscle. Once he felt the release of one of the knots he began to move his fingers forward and back as his thumbs continued their circular motion. Uruha smiled. Miyavi never would have admitted it, but as much a he liked to touch other people, he hated to be touched in return unless he deemed the other person safe in his personal space. Miyavi really was an odd one, but only recently did he start to exhibit “unhealthy behavior” as the doctor had put it. But what would anyone else do otherwise if their whole world were turned upside down as Miyavi’s had been? Sit quietly and let it turn?
Miyavi didn’t want to learn sign language. He didn’t want to sleep most of the time and unless Uruha or the brunette’s sister forced him, Miyavi would stay awake for days until exhaustion pushed him to bed. Miyavi wouldn’t get into a car and Uruha couldn’t find fault in the other’s animosity towards the machines for he would have felt the same way if the last time he rode in a car was the last time he would have ever been able to play his guitar again. But what irked Uruha the most, of all of Miyavi’s newer habits, was the way he would break anything he held when he had a fit. But the doctor had said that it would be the norm for a while. How long that norm would be, the doctor couldn’t say, but Uruha was growing tired of it. He had only so many glasses, beers, and lamps. Thank god he didn’t go for the TV…
Uruha’s hands fell back as Miyavi shrugged his shoulders in agitation. He stood quickly, stepping purposefully on the glass pieces as he stumbled into the living room, falling hard to his knees as the pain in his feet became too much. Uruha glared at the fallen man, stomping around the glass to reach the brunette who cringed silently upon the matted floor. “Stop being fucking stupid and hurting yourself,” Uruha hissed, bending down and grabbing Miyavi’s arm as he pulled Miyavi to his chest. Miyavi struggled, punching at Uruha as the blonde lifted Miyavi from the floor with an effort and took him into the bathroom through their bedroom. “Stop it!” Uruha shouted as he awkwardly dropped his heavy burden on the toilet.
Miayvi glared back at Uruha, clenching his hands against the side of the counter top in pain as Uruha brought out the rubbing alcohol and gauze that had become a regular item to buy on the monthly grocery run. When Uruha grabbed at Miyavi’s right foot the brunette punched him in the jaw, eyes wide and defiant as Uruha jerked back at the punch. The blonde gritted his teeth and wrenched the other’s foot to rest upon his knee as he set about extracting the glass.
*
“Uruha, you should stop shaving your face for awhile,” Miyavi laughed as the blonde glanced over at him incredulously. “I’m serious, dude! Don’t shave for a couple days and see how everyone feels about it,” he said with fervor, nodding as he thought over the idea. When he still received a raised brow for his efforts, Miyavi sighed dramatically, shaking the other’s shoulder as the TV show went to commercial. “See, if your band mates notice then they’re too into you’re appearance and want to fuck you, but if they could care less and don’t say anything until someone on the staff does then you don’t have to worry about it.”
Uruha howled in laughter, thinking of Reita or Ruki or, god forbid, Aoi coming onto him. He just couldn’t believe that they would be like that, ever. Miyavi punched his shoulder, grinning at Uruha’s dimpled laughter. “I’m serious!” The blonde just shook his head as the movie started again, dismissing the command to out his band mates. Ridiculous. Miyavi started to hum then, singing one of his newer, more favored songs as he flopped against Uruha on the couch, waiting patiently for the other’s arm to wrap around his shoulders, as he was usually accustomed to do when he wanted to be held. Uruha rolled his eyes, throwing his arm around the bony shoulders as he used his other hand to muffle the loud humming interrupting his movie. “Shut it,” Uruha hissed non-threateningly, shaking the brunette as he laughed into the blonde’s palm.
*
Uruha awoke early the following morning, grimacing at the radiant light that assaulted his eyes through the blinds. Miyavi was curled against his back, chilling toes wedged between the bed and Uruha’s legs. No matter how badly they would argue the night before Miyavi would always end up plastered to Uruha’s back the morning after, seeking the warmth that the blonde always emitted. Uruha sighed quietly as he began to untangle himself from the bed and Miyavi’s arms.
*
“What kind of beer do you like?”
Uruha frowned, thinking of a popular beer he might have had recently. “Heineken?” Miyavi laughed, smacking the blonde on the back as they walked to their separate studios in the office. “You’re such a liar,” the brunette accused as they dodged one of the messenger runners flying down the hall. “You don’t even know what a Heineken tastes like you vodka whore!”
Uruha grunted, nodding as he rested his hand against his chin solemnly, “I’ve been disgustingly deprived of a good German beer for so long.” Uruha then grinned, ruffling Miyavi’s longish hair as he shouted, “Thank God!” Miyavi remained calm as his hair was fluffed continuously and some of the office workers looked over at them strangely, before pushing Uruha into the wall roughly. Uruha flailed briefly, watching the slight curve that appeared along Miyavi’s lips as the other continued to walk briskly to his studio room.
“Little shit…” Uruha murmured as he pushed of the wall and continued his trek as he saw Miyavi’s figure disappear into one of the many rooms along the hall. And as Uruha passed the room Miyavi had entered he smirked as he heard the declaration shouted at his back, “Yes you have!”
*
“Don’t forget your appointment today at three, okay?” Uruha waited for some kind of hand motion from the prone figure under the covers on the bed. When Miyavi didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash Uruha rubbed at his eyes tiredly, walking into the room to stand before the bed. “Hey,” he said and kicked at the mattress. Miyavi opened his eyes slowly to stare up into Uruha’s gaze. Golden hazel to dark, doe brown. “Don’t forget, okay? There’s money for lunch on the counter in the kitchen. I…” Uruha hesitated, forgetting himself in the bottomless pit that seemed to consist of Miyavi’s eyes. “I might…be a little late. So don’t wait up for me and make something for yourself for dinner.” Uruha leaned down for a moment, closing in on the brunette’s chapped lips, before straightening abruptly at the pained pleading look Miayvi gave to him. Uruha looked away, rubbing the back of his head as he fisted his other hand to his side. “Umm…I’ll see ya later, ’kay?” And then he was leaving the apartment; almost running in his haste to leave. When did he start to fear his own home?