all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

5- Brian May

Something about the way he softly strummed his guitar seemed to strum on my own heartstrings. Don't ask me how; but in a way, his sharp skills on the guitar sharpened the emotions I had for him. It had always been that way; I always found him most stunning when he was doing what he loved most with his musical instrument.

So imagine the amount of love that I quite conspicuously felt for Brian as he laid down on the sofa, a pouffy mass of dark mahogany curls laid down in my lap, while those ever-so-elegant hands of his strummed at his polished acoustic guitar resting on his stomach, his angelic voice humming along to the majestic tune inside his head and heart that flowed to his fingers.

It often seemed as though any string instrument was an extension of his arm, because playing came so easy and natural to him. You could give him a ukelele and he could still manage to strum either a beat to possess you and get you dancing like a mad person, or a few chords to tug at your heartstrings and cause you to weep. Truly he managed wonders with music.

Involuntarily, one of my hands went up to his dark mass of hair to run my fingers through it. Contrary to what a person might believe on first sight, his hair was indescribably soft, tresses that framed his angular face.

Perhaps he had the most innocent face I'd ever seen. Just like a child, his hazel-green eyes were as wide as a doe's, and at the moment they flitted upwards to stare at the ceiling as he strummed away.

"What are you playing, darling?" I couldn't help but ask, not daring to raise my voice above a certain level so as not to disturb the beautiful peace and quiet that had settled between us.

"Just a little something," he softly replied, shrugging a little, "Something Freddie wrote today."

"Is it gonna be acoustic?" I gestured at his guitar which seemed to replace his Old Lady.

He hummed, "Not really. Just live, on the album it'll be with my regular trusty companion," he smiled sweetly, his canines poking out in the most adorable way possible.

"Alright then, let's hear it from the great Brian Harold May," I grinned, reveling in the image of his cheeks stained a warm shade of red.

"Bear in mind that I'm no Freddie," he self-consciously bit his lip as he straightened up a little, so he was half-sitting up, "My voice isn't all too wonderful, really, it's more his thing---"

Leaning down a bit, I kissed him upside down to put a stop to his rambling lies.

Blush still prominent on his face, he began to softly run his fingers over the strings of his wooden instrument, in a tune that so resembles angels' feet treading on heaven's grounds; an unearthly sound I couldn't wrap my head around.

"Love of my life, you've hurt me," he sang in an almost-inaudible voice, "You've broken my heart, and now you leave me. Love of my life, can't you see?"

Momentarily, he paused strumming to stroke my hand which was lying on his shoulder, before returning to his guitar while my skin tingled, "Bring it back, bring it back," he exhaled softly, resting his cheek against my thigh, not even looking at his hands as they did their magic, "Don't take it away from me, because you don't know what it means," he stopped for a moment, his breathtaking eyes meeting mine, glimmering brightly, before he went on to finish it in utmost sweetness and beauty, wrapping me in his cocoon of love, "To me."

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