âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• David Bowie •

I've been feeling a bit sad about him recently, so let's start with the classic Starman. Let me know what you think!

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Of all the things that could be important to a man, you'd never expected make up to rank so high. And David was a man, in every sense of the word, no matter what anyone said - maybe he'd sometimes wear more makeup than you and got sneered at in the street, but he was intelligent, kind, strong, gentle and masculine, all the things a real man should be.

You never tired of watching David put his makeup on. Seeing him so concentrated, watching the images of his brilliant mind becoming a reality, bearing witness to what could be a completely new persona - living with him was constantly fascinating.

It wasn't very often David got to do his make up for himself anymore, because his manager claimed that he took too long. If he had a crazy new idea, though, he'd always try it out for himself anyway. His long fingers were nimble, and he'd often forego brushes in favour of his fingertips, which were apt at navigating around the sharp angles of his lean face.

"You're staring," he grinned at you in the mirror, gold-stained fingers suspended in front of him. "Do you like it?"

You took a moment to properly look at his face. His kaleidoscopic eyes were watching yours with a hint of apprehension that you knew him well enough to pick up on, his osseous cheeks glowing in the bright overhead light, his crooked teeth just visible between his crooked grin.

"It's beautiful. It really matches your eyes. And your hair, of course." David had recently dyed his hair a blinding orange and you hadn't quite gotten used to it yet, but the large gold circle he'd smudged onto his forehead complimented the new colour immensely. He smiled toothily, raising his gold flecked fingers to start filling in the uneven edges.

The dressing room that you had accompanied him into was snug, furnished meagrely with a lumpy two-seater sofa which you had carefully perched yourself on, a peeling coffee table, an empty set of drawers and a large white dressing table. Despite the slightly depressing aura of the room, David, with his sunset hair, eclipsing eyes and glittery platforms painted the bleak surroundings with a bit of his unique sparkle. The bulb above seemed almost dull in comparison.

Pattering on the window outside was the beginnings of a thick thunderstorm that the two of you had only just avoided. You could hear the occasional ominous rumbles running through the bruised sky, closing in on the city. Beneath that, as though remedying the sudden shocks of nature, was the comforting hum of the electricity generator that powered the small theatre.

David was taking a break from recording his as-yet unnamed album to complete a quick six-week tour around the country, and this show, in a dodgy back street theatre in the centre of London, was the last of the scheduled dates. The venues had been much the same all around the U.K. He was worth way more than peeling seats and cheap lights, which you were made painfully aware of every time he stood behind a microphone, but that was the unfortunate way it had to be to get him started.

Much to your delight, David had asked you to go with him. You'd spent many of the recent weeks tangled together in the backs of cars, a book in one of both of your hands and your others clasped tightly together.

The nights had been cosy, finding you leaning on one another underneath your coats. You'd been able to stay in hotels for a couple of them though, and these were secretly your favourites because the rooms you were kept in felt like David had really made it. And, as far as you were concerned, he already had. He had music out in the world, music that people enjoyed and sang back to him - what more could an artist ever hope for?