Categories > Celebrities > Dir en grey


by shuttered 1 review

A little random...thing...about Kyo writing a song, with implied KyoxKaoru, although I guess the pairing could be KyoxDie if you want it to be. But I like KyoxKaoru. Sorry if there are any errors,...

Category: Dir en grey - Rating: G - Genres: Angst,Romance - Characters: Kaoru,Kyo - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2009-09-24 - Updated: 2009-09-25 - 527 words - Complete

Once the tip of his pen hit the paper, he couldn’t pick it up again. Black ink scrawled across the page, leaving smudges and lines that only he himself could decipher. He wrote all his songs like this. A title starting the song off, a few words representing himself in that moment, and he had it. Everything he wanted to say, jumbled up in his mind, came out right on paper. He didn’t think about how or why it worked out like that, he didn’t think about what he was saying. He just wrote.

He wrote everything that was and wasn’t there when their eyes met for a split second. He wrote his emotions, even ones he didn’t realize he had until just then, and he wrote his thoughts and hopes. The chicken scratch that made up each word, each line, was not only him, but someone else. Someone that took over his head. A person whose voice throbbed in his mind, pounding along with his pulse, along with his voice as he sang. The one he longed for. The one he loved. The one he could never have.

And so he wrote himself. He wrote his love’s masked face, he wrote his own. Not for a second did he notice the tears streaming down his face, or the lines of red that appeared as his fingers unconsciously scratched at his arms and chest in between words. That was just what he did, just his way of dealing with his emotions. He was used to all this by now. Years had gone by since it all began, and every day he found new ways to deal with it, whatever “it” was. Sometimes his methods weren’t enough, and he’d find himself sobbing at the strangest of times. But he was lucky, he knew, that he had a way to vent. A way to express himself.

Even as each strum of that certain man’s guitar pained him even more, he could sing it out, scream it out. And his love would unknowingly play the notes to a melody, one that the prophet had matched with these scribbles that only he could understand. Lyrics that he would leave open for interpretation, but in his mind, were meant for himself, meant for his love.
And as he wrote all this out in his own unique, almost demented way, he never thought about it. It was just so, it was just there; it was just something he knew. He never lied to himself. That would just be wasting time and energy. So all he could do was sit down again and scrawl out another song.

As he laid the pen down, next to the page, he slumped back in his chair. The song felt like an open-ended question; an uncertain ending, but upon hearing it, you could feel in the pit of your stomach that it wouldn’t end up like a fairytale. The famed prophet may not have heard the saying “write what you know,” but that’s what he did. And he knew that, for him, happy endings didn’t exist.
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