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havredamour · 3 years

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𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐨: 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞. 5 July, 1997

“Ah, koo-chi-ikchi-coo. Ah, koo-chi-coo. Bub, bwub, bwub.”

Michael chuckled softly, laid on his chest and chin―arms drawn up and cuddling and barely tickling his 12-month old daughter back and forth under the crook of her chin, on and off again as she would kick her footsies up against his face and gurgle sweet snotty laughs that, though she kept him busy, she also kept his heart and cheekiness wanting to come out more in turn of her playfulness. “La-la-la-la-la-la. La Muah. ...L’ℎ𝑎𝑎𝑎? Oh... Stop poking me in my eye.” He peeped one eye open as the other one held closed, him erupting with low laughter under that of the spitty loud giggles of his baby. She sat backwards into the bed in nothing but her Cookie Monster fuzz socks and matching Sesame Street diaper. Michael hovered over her with a blanket across his shoulders, resting his fist on his cheek as he slowly would drift off from time to time before she would hit a quick one and either yank on his necklace, tug on his hair, and suddenly make a sound. And he would sing to her. And for the reason of keeping himself up for her sake.

Michael twanged a tired, sheep grin to himself. His eyes were swooned with years-worth of crinkles. Smiling dents. He cooed to her. In native baby language, of course. A part of him used to not believe in baby talk. Thought it didn’t help with development. The other part of him did, though. Because that other part of him sure realised just how wrong he was. Babbling therapy, her pediatricians called it. Because she wasn’t even talking yet. Just on the eve of turning one, she was. There were times he’d thought he sounded so stupid, but he couldn’t help it. Babying her back; he copied her. And she learned how to copy him and his chameleon ways. He would talk to her for hours on end, even when she could not understand a lick of what he was saying, and seemingly... she’d begun trying to repeat words he’d say and put together sounds that would mimic his. In all of that and coupled... she was so intelligent already. So smart. This was his child. His child. Babbling? Spitting on him with every word? An improvement from her screaming for joy, but at least she was still doing that too from time to time. Thank God. They just grow up so fast, he thought.

Her hair was coming in. As she played on, his long palm reached out to take her delicate cheek in it. The tips of his fingers crowning support to the back of her head as she just looked around. Tongue sticking out. Not in the cheeky way, but in the gummy smile sort. Airy. He’d begun wonder if she’d ever inherit curls or even waves, as he did. Really, just healthy hair. A healthy baby, really.

“Bbuu. Bbrrr.”

She started to sound like she had water in her mouth. Or nose.

Silence. Nothing but the same gummy smile, sometimes completely faltering and crooning back minutes later for no reason other than the one she knew. Of course to Michael? That was all the sound of the world. Big, curious, brown eyes. Bright as morning. Dark as his. They carried on stars in them.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he would whisper as he pushed himself up off a hand, lifted her up and suckled her into his shoulder, making silent and serious faces.

Then, gently rubbing one of her balled up hands after the other between his own hands and kissing them, blowing into them as if to keep them warm in circulation as his doting daughter watched on and then looked at herself and the room around them. She was just in her own room. Around others, she never was so active. ...Well, she was. But she was shy. Smiley, giggly, all the same. She never cried around others. Around others. Oh, but when she did, she let Michael have the worst of it. That only happened when he’d left the room. Which... he seldom did. So, virtually, she never cried. But when she did? He was there. He was always there. However way possible.

A wiggle, and then a curious and spitty hand landed on his cheek, the reward of her confusion splitting into a toothiless smile, her dimples pronounced and gums dancing into the smallest squeal followed by the brightest gaze that left him wanting to dash around the house.

They’d spent almost every day together, it felt as. But it always felt he had just brought her home for the first time. He was forever bringing her home. “Oh, my precious... beautiful baby. Daddy’s got you. You make papa the happiest in the world, sweetie, don’ you. So do you. Nyu’auw, of course, you know. You, you do.” More in his animation, he laid flat on his back, taking care in raising her above him. “Just look at how big you’re getting. Look at you. How tiny you are. Your first birthday’s coming up, and all...” Gently, he weighed her up and down in the air over him as their noses would dab and he continued to whisper cheerily in a rap, ending in loving, sassy croons, and kissing her with rhythm. “First. Birthday. Boo. Ye’h, princess. You go, my Tiger.” She made something of a cheeky bumbling hum that built up behind her fist, so inaudible, but still made him perk up than before like he’d never heard it before. “I know... that’s right. Oh... isn’t it exciting, darling?”

With her in his arms as he stood, his eyes would wander out into the Wales. Not the South Wales. But the ones heeding of London. He wanted to take her again with him back to Australia so badly. Perhaps even France. Anywhere except the UK. For a multitude of reasons that could pour out of him, it was too much to even mention. Some other time to deal with.

He never had to lock his door back home in Sydney. There he sat, clad in a satin black unbuttoned, untucked shirt, his same mint green houndstooth trousers, barefoot upon solitude in his London converted penthouse loft with river views he’d owned in secret for years. Perfect for summertime. Not the Chelsea home he shared sometimes with Paula.

Tiger was at play with her back turned to him in that moment. Somewhere in London. His own den, for the time being. Alone, quiet. For a bit at least. The two of them. If anybody came in or knocked unannounced, he’d activate lion mode. Berserk, ever rarely. It was early, too. But that wouldn’t happen. Not today. This was his and his Tiger’s day.

He was sleepy. For the longest it seemed, he hadn’t been able to sleep properly without medication until he’d spent time with his daughter. He’d been clean for months on months for her and himself. He couldn’t even get his mind to go anywhere when he was with her. The responsibilities that searched for him. He was nowhere in proximity, left to liberty. Thank God, at least. He didn’t want that. He was focused on the one person that mattered to him in this world. The one, helpless little sweetest, most innocent thing in the world that had officially stolen his heart. She pretty much saved his life. Faintly enough, he was recovering.

Tired, so tired. So tense, but so at ease. Relaxed, so sane. So... in life. Like everything was as it should be. Was it should be. Everything felt normal. Crazy, but normal. Zero disorder. He felt he could strategically think about his future again. In a totally new way. He felt like a part of the human race. Or a whole different sort of life form like which. He brought his nose down to tiny hers, nuzzling it again and again and pulling away to get up from little Hiraani before she rushed to him on knees, took and felt his face between her bobbing, scratching, grabby and balled up, slightly slobbered tiny hands. Tiny little learning hands. All he could do was close his eyes. Ah, he was a sap. She got him again.

“I love... you.”

#non canon

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havredamour · 3 years

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25 December, 1990 A little 2-year-old Zoë Kravitz was swatting out bubbles with her large wand, and Bono’s wife Ali was sat cradling their 18-month-old daughter Jordan who spun her fist round whilst Ross, the patriarch of the Hutchence-Glassop family sat by the fireplace, funnily miming and reading out loud the latest edition of Pat Le Chat by James Dean. The main housekeepers of the villa, Linda and Nestor―a heartwarming couple from the Philippines remained close to get an ear in, occasionally chiming Tagalog to each other. In another room, Lenny had just introduced his mother Roxie to the family and was already on a roll with her stories of Lenny and cheesing on all the times he’d gotten his fashion sense from her closet; on and on enough for him to barely eye roll beneath his eyelids with a smile and drop his head into his hands. Her and Michael’s sister Tina got on pretty well. Outside in the garden, olive trees hugging the villa grounds were being mulched by a few more housekeepers as suggested by Michael to protect them from the upcoming coldfronts. Snowbanks had completely coated the South of France and the French Riviera in its entirety, thick almost that whenever someone looked out the window they could see tree branches tickled with scarfs of soft white. Come nighttime, it all looked moviesque. Blanketed rooftops, brimming chimneys, and the neighbouring array of Christmas lights. It had not been completely cloudy that day. Bridges of blue mingled their way through bouts of grey in the evening sky, offering sunkisses. Silver linings, you may say.

The house echoed with hysterics of laughter, filled of fond and mild gossip, the preachings of Lenny, and family stories layering as the children opened their cards and presents. Ross would even chime in with his years as a pilot. From the delicious mulled wine, to steamed hot chocolate topped with tiny fluffy marshmallows in most mugs, to the French cheeses and flaky dinner rolls, the local aged vintages, sea scallops, hrísgrjónaréttur, garlic roast red potatoes, fish galore, glazed carrots, breaded stuffing with hot gravy, maple roast... everything from the fried shrimp―prawns, klejner, pies and cakes, delicious steak trims of brisket with shallot sage butter, bread sauce, cranberry sauce (lots of that), several sauces labeled by the markets, Tina’s frittata, candied yams, smoked collard greens, wild rice, baked macaroni and cheese... a courtesy bared on Roxie’s behalf. Not including the frozen desserts. The whole nine yards. No-brainer, the villa had been coined the "holiday buffé haven" to be along after being proudly solidified by Michael himself as ‘the family home’.

Michael had everything prearranged down to the seafood and the beef marinades. By the end of the day, he’d been left in charge of the seafood, keeping an eye on the stock of scotch for Ross and stoking the fire with logs. For the whole day, visitors would come and go. But the main ones that brought life were the Hutchence family, the Kravitz’ family, the Minogues, and the Bonos. Normally, we would call them the Hewsons, but it’d become the thing to just say Bonos. The Farriss brothers had phoned through and left voicemails of holiday sentiments, some drunken. As did the Le Bon family, Martha, Arsenio Hall, Nile Rodgers, a tipsy Chrissy of the Divinyls, young James Iha, Richard Lowenstein... and a loyal mixture of past lovers-turned-close-friends as Rosanna Crash and Michèle Bennett. To this day, they held a special place in Michael’s life. Of course, it was very evident that he’d long moved on just as they had, they were able to hold on to that familiarity and mutual understandings on a healthy basis. No one was sure how he’d done it; perhaps even baffled by certain dynamics. But at the end of it, Michael had always made it a point in showing he cared. He was never too much a fuss. There was something of this unique, morphing abundance of respect and support as a remainder of his relationships that left no room for awkwardness. Considerably so, he’d always remained chivalrous.

“JOOONNIE!” All you could hear was Michael aweing out over the homephone, hooking it on his two fingers as he paced around the kitchen. “Ah, how’re you going, darling..” He spoke with adoration, waving down his family. The sudden distinguished accent that mingled with a delightful chuckle would buzz over the receiver with subtlety. And then she would go on to gush about her latest excursion she’d done recently to the sands of Northern Italy for December, where her modelling career had taken her thus far. Through Pienza, Tuscania, and San Pietro. Admittedly, he’d already had a headstart on two bottles of Dom Perignon judging by how coquette, relaxed and highly fascinated he sounded with every the smallest of things. Even more than usual. Rosanna definitely picked up on this. But quick to clutch, he would evade her prodding with his own cheeky behaviour; prodding other details out of her for the both of them to discuss and go back and forth about.

It seemed to be the perfect affair; Christmas. It was, strangely. Tina had lethally flipped the TV to an old 1940 Christmas movie, ‘Beyond Tomorrow’. One that caught Mother’s attention, one would peep. And a one that would make everyone yawn, especially after dinner. For the amount of presence there was in the house, there was a loving absence of disorder. A purely unique balance found between hectic and serene. Michael himself was the simpatico extrovert amongst easy-going introverts that would soon share the energy―Mingling, mixing, catching up with various family and friends and entertaining his guests on a social ship, ice broken to bits and all potentialities of tension ripped to shreds. Like the rarity of casual magic. It was a very intimate setting as everyone bundled together in the living room to bust a few moves. Inevitably though, you’d catch Rhett and Kell in the kitchen, sharing banter and reaching a near yell match like son, like father. That's when Michael would have to butt in with humour, hands to shoulders.

Dark brown and honeyed-tinged moppy curls tied into a bun at the nape of his neck, the rest would fall around his face as his rimless eyeglasses sat up at the hem of his nose much like a scruffy librarian. Michael walked alongside Lenny in the garden, trying to fix his Bolex camera. Lenny, on the right, sported a huge crocheted cap over his freeform long locs and for once took off his shades after the whole of the gettogether. The two had gotten away from the minimal crowd and blazed up tokes against the cold, cutting up about their normal lives out the box, Lenny telling him how things were going with Lisa, them both agreeing about how... to some sense, thinking was passé and soon confiding about their experiences with pressures of being in the musical world of 'stardom', and plain bullshitting into hysterics. Seemed the night was to end on a real good note.

#wip.txt

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