Latin Jazz by redphlox
The lights dim and submerge them in a hazy shadow of the spotlights pointed at the musicians on the stage who've suddenly stilled and solidified in anticipation, hands steadied over their instruments. Beside her, Soul pauses, too. He'd told Maka once that the soundless moments before music starts are like taking in a long breath and waiting for your heart to find its rhythm and balance. Maka had never understood until she had glanced up from her notes at Soul one evening and fell in love with how the muscles in his forearms rippled underneath his skin as he ghosted a melody with his fingers absentmindedly, his eyes rolling across the page of his textbook. His chin had been resting in his palm and he'd been motionless otherwise, a brush stroke of beauty, and she'd been entirely defenseless against the tides of fascination.
It'd been quiet. She'd wanted to hear music.
It's flashes of moments like these that plant themselves secretly in Maka's mind and bloom unexpectedly, calling for her to accept Soul's increasing presence in her wandering, fuzzy thoughts. She'd even been housing a distracted daydream about him when the words "Latin Jazz Concert!" had attracted her eyes as she had stepped out of her favorite bookstore with a new novel tucked between her side and her elbow.
Maka had become rooted to the sidewalk, lips parted, straining to link the bolded words to a definition, only thinking of Soul and the mysterious, haunted song he'd played for her.
Digging the balls of her feet into the pavement to propel her forward, she'd crossed the street in a few strides. She'd yanked the lavender advertisement off the brick wall and read it hungrily before folding it meticulously into a tiny rectangle and pocketing it. She'd been driven by moments of doubt to unwrap it and reread it, urging herself to coolly and casually bring it up and ask Soul if he'd want to go, if it'd revive a part of him and if he'd let her inside. Instead, she had reeled the flyer from the depths of her backpack two nights before the printed date and had marched into his bedroom where he slumped at his desk doodling on a take home quiz, slapping it down with a bam that had made him flinch. Confused velvet eyes had glanced between her and the paper.
"We're going," she'd told him simply. "I'm taking you."
He'd slid the crinkled flyer toward him and she'd searched his face.
"Latin jazz?" he'd voiced incredulously. Maka had seen lightening flash from a jagged canine. "You're going to take me to a Latin jazz concert?"
"Yeah."
"You like great music now?"
"I like what I like," she'd replied easily, but blushed. "And I like you, and you like jazz."
And Soul had smiled happily.
Now, Maka's nervously holding her breath, waiting for the music to break the silence and fill Soul.
It must've been only a few seconds, Maka's thoughts swirling, until finally the pianist unfreezes and brings down her fingers on the keyboard, tapping out a bouyant melody. Beside Maka, Soul's spellbound. The drummer dabs on the cymbals lightly; Maka watches, transfixed, as the brass players - are those trumpets and a trombone? - breath into their mouthpieces in unison, echoing each other. Then she's awed by the deft hands of the percussionists sitting with barrel drums between their legs who grove to the beat, bobbing their heads.
It's all confusing to Maka. She can't even name some of the instruments that are being used. She shifts to concentrate on Soul, whose beaming, drowsy eyes scintillating. The light from the stage catches in his frosty hair like moonlight on untouched snow. He's all teeth and soft lines and reflections of light. Rhythm and balance. A brush stroke of stillness amongst movement. It makes her breathless.
This is Soul's cool version of geeking out, Maka thinks distractedly. She's flickered her gaze over to him many times during their quiet times in the living room, Maka preoccupied with a book and Soul with headphones fixed in his ears and his attention already aimed at her. She'd always shush the excited gushing in her chest and would raise an eyebrow questioningly at him. "You were geeking out again", he'd tease. Maka now wonders if he'd seen her as a brush stoke too, if her stillness could compare to his, because he looks like a painting, the kind that brings serenity to the viewer and makes them remember what sunlight from their happiest days felt like.
A small outburst of clapping and impressed awes bubble from the back of the auditorium. Maka turns her head to see a small gathering of couples on their feet, swaying and twisting and bobbing in their own way to the song, a woman dancing with expert finesse in high heels earning a few smiles, her partner twirling her out, sending her hair fanning. A pair of girls look at each daringly and then break out shimmying their shoulders in an attempt to find a danceable rhythm. A toddler with his hair neatly parted and brushed to the side wiggles his bottom and begins a slow descent into a crouch, arms flailing. People erupt in laughter. A man dips his partner and the two share a kiss, evoking more cheers. At the front, the saxophonist whoops before keying out a string of undulating, rich notes.
Maka's eyes wander to Soul, who's already focused on her. He's entranced, too. Maka wishes she could become a painter to recreate every moment of tonight, wishes she could capture his beauty with colors and wishes she could tell him that she thinks he's a portrait that makes her remember what the sunlight felt like on her skin before she ever knew heartache. Wishes she could hear his heart find its rhythm and balance. She decides she likes music a little bit more, for making him happy.
Soul offers her his hand. "Want to?" he asks, shy adventure sparking in his eyes, and she feels something like thrill and fervor simmering inside her as he leads her down the aisle, as he palms her hip and their fingers intertwine and they move together to Latin jazz.