METANOIA - A Martin Garrix Fanfiction

London - Paris

Later after we took pictures at Clyde, we drove to London and I called shotgun because I was fucking tired of sitting in the backseat. Martin accepted his fate with great reluctance. And because of that, too, that I plugged my phone to the radio with the audio jack and played any damned song I wanted.

The first one to go was Shawn Mendes' 'I Don't Even Know Your Name', and I set the player on shuffle. I didn't sing along with it at first, because I didn't know the lyric. But then 'Blood Hands' sounded (it was the only rock/garage rock I had in my phone) and I immediately lost it.

The song was goddamned awesome. The chorus came in, and I sang along.

"And I'll curse the ground where you kneel,

'Till I grow my hair to my heels,

Spike your water, your wine,

While you waste my precious time,"

I strummed imaginary chords, and said, "I wish I can play bass,"

"You can already play enough instruments," Reuben said, bobbing his head slowly with the music.

"Yeah, and I guess I don't want to ruin my fingernails," I told him while eyeing them. 'Blood Hands' died down and it was replaced by Halsey's 'Control'. Goddamn yeah, that was one of my favorites, oh wait, I guess all of her songs were my favorites. She was my hero.

I sang through the whole song, blankly raising my hands and closing my eyes at the 'Who is on control?' When I opened them, I caught Martin's gray ones from the rearview mirror, the color obscured by shadows.

"Your taste in music is—"

"Undeniably awe-inspiring, Yes, I'm aware of that, Martha, thank you."

"I was gonna say contrastive, but yeah, I guess that could do, too. But the lyrics, they're sort of—"

"Listen, Mister Electronic-music, what you need to know about me is that I am a big time believer of lyric importance, which is why, if you haven't noticed, I am not exactly drawn to your genres,"

"I have tracks with lyrics, too."

"Really? Well, if they are much like poem and deep shit and not just about 'live in the moment' 'life is too short' or 'fuck fuck fuck she's hot', then they are welcome in my playlist."

He smirked at my last reference. "Right. Can you make poetries?"

I shrugged, afraid that my answer would be too self-centered. So I asked him, "Can you?"

"I'm not a lyricist."

"Right. You're not, and oh—No one 'round here is good at keepin' their eyes closed,

The sun's starting to light up when we're walkin' home,

Tired little laugh, gold lie promises,

We'll always win at this, I don't ever think about death,

It's alright if you do, it's fine,"

Martin was smiling at me from the mirror and I guess I smiled back because his grew to a grin and he shook his head, then leaned to the seat and closed his eyes. And I thought maybe he's enjoying me singing.

We arrive in London at four P.M. straight to the venue. And my mind wouldn't shut up telling me this was my first time watching him perform. Budapest

And despite my dislike toward lyric-less electronic music, at some point I found my head bobbing to the beat and at the end of the show I was smiling.