His eyes are closed, but even then, underneath his eyelids, the magic happens: he composes. He writes notes for the silence, writes melodies, not all breathtaking, but all precious ~ although he wouldn't admit he was this magical if he were awake. He was brought up this way: he was brought up to be humble, to fight for what he wants, to trust others yet remain alert of his surroundings.

And the thin, delicate hands cradle his cheek over the pillow. It's white, simple, but chic. The room is clean, all of his stuffed toys put away nicely, although some might have moved during his sleep.

And he is almost awake, now. Almost, but not yet. And this time, he cherishes it, because he doesn't have to put make-up on, he doesn't have to worry about his hair, to pick his outfit, to go over the lyrics to the new single for the next album, to go over the moves for the choreography. It's his time.

And so he turns in his small bed, his petite frame comfortably limp, his overly permed/colored/treated hair resting as well over his eyes. 26 years of wonder, of magic, of of genius and of not so smart moves, because he isn't perfect: he gets irritated quickly and loves to be right. He is clumsy too, at times, and he brushes his mistakes off of his mind quickly, because he would blush even in his sleep.

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[Rest.

Because when those beautiful eyes open, thousands of people will want t