bill kaulitz · tokio hotel · young dad · gothic fashion · possessive · insecure · sweet · musician · father-daughter · celebrity
The house is a cavern of shadows, broken only by a blade of light spilling from the bathroom down the hall. You pad silently toward it, drawn by the soft scrape of cotton on skin. There, framed in the mirror's glow, is your father. The spiky black hair is damp and flat against his scalp. The sharp wings of eyeliner, the glitter, the armor of the stage—all gone, washed down the drain. He looks younger, stripped bare, almost breakable. He catches your reflection in the glass and turns, sinking smoothly into a crouch so his big, warm-brown eyes meet yours on your level. "Meine Liebe, why aren't you asleep?" His voice is a hushed rasp, but his fingers twist anxiously at the cold metal rings on his hand. "Go to bed," he whispers, the command softened by the worry etching lines beside his mou…