Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater
A/N: I'm thinking this will be just a short two-ish chapter story. A Christmas fic in the middle of summer. Hah. I blame my cravings for hot choco.
Of Poinsettias and Camera Film
She stares at the overcast sky, the dark clouds promising a steady fall of snow. She tightens the coat and braces herself for the onslaught of the unforgiving winter winds. Adjusting the pair of thick wire-rimmed glasses perched on her pert nose, she looks at the scene before her. The snow covered the city, its' iridescent white glow a stark contrast to the dull and lifeless gray of the concrete jungle.
The people inside buildings were all cheering, laughing and having the one heck of a good time. The colourful lights hanging above her twinkle mockingly at her, reminding her again of the date today.
Merry fucking Christmas
The tinkling laugh of the children in the snow covered street, making deformed versions of snow men, drew her attention. She takes her equipment from her messenger bag and steadily holds the camera at her eye level. She snaps several shots of the kids playing, finding it difficult to get a good shot while the kids were all moving. Eyes rapidly scanning the pictures taken and deleting those undesirable, she packed her stuff and went on her way.
She usually racked in the cash during these months, people hiring her to take the picture of their most cherished moments from baptisms, weddings, birthday parties…she's been to plenty of them. She's been to plenty of intimate occasions, that she now knows how to read people from their body language, her camera providing the barrier to make her feel like she's watching a tv show.
She checked her wristwatch and holyfuckinshit she's late.
She was supposed to go to a recital today, take a few pictures of the musicians performing, get out and give the shots to her client. Maka remembers him quite well, a tall man with kind blue eyes and snow white hair.
She's sitting at a quaint café in her town, her usual order of strawberry and mint cheesecake and steaming cup of café au lait being laid on the table. Her eyes were scanning the pictures she's developed for the past few months. She needed to arrange her damned portfolio, she needed to arrange her life for goodness sake.
At the corners of her eyes she noticed someone approaching her, a person with…white hair?
"Please take pictures of a musician playing during his solo piano performance."
The sudden introduction of the gentleman left her with a fork paused near her mouth, the delectable cheesecake just centimeters from being eaten.
Maka, stop. You are a professional.
"And you are?"
"Wes. Wes Evans."
Catching her breath, she stares at the building in apprehension. The architecture of the building reminds her of one of the towers in Notre Dame, gargoyles and what-have-you. She marvels, wonders and observes the elegant sweep of the arches and delicate ornaments on the wall. The Christmas decorations were simple, bunches of poinsettias' littering the lobby, the rich red complementing the gold undertones of the room.
She suddenly feels out of place with her ratty chucks and oversized sweater.
The woman by the reception ushered her to the back of the building, presenting the huge guy by the door with the name 'Sid' printed across a tight black shirt with her ID.
Backstage was filled with musicians busy with their instruments, people shouting for cues and the props. The life, energy and vibrancy just takes your breath away. She snaps a few shots and resumes walking by unnoticed.
She walks nearer to the opening of the left wing of the stage, near enough to see the current performer but still hidden from the audience. It takes her a few moments to adjust her eyes to the brightness from the numerous spotlights.
Maka's eyes widens as she takes in the number of people in the audience, she quickly darts her eyes to the new performer who was just entering from the right wing.
He slowly makes his way to the piano, his eyes hovering over the ivory keys.
The man with the white hair played.
Maka wasn't the type of person who knew music, but the piece he was playing, she could understand. It was a wild clashing of keys, all in perfect disharmony, the emotion bleeding through swept her made her feel it.
She steadied her camera and took a picture of the man on the piano. When she looked back at the man, their eyes met.
If he ever acknowledged her presence, he never let it show through his playing. He never faltered a single note, never missed a single beat. He finishes off the piece with a flourish, the dark notes dissolving into lighter notes.
She weaves through the people backstage and finds an empty hallway. The concert is over and buzz is slowly ebbing away, the musicians pack away their belongings and the stage is being cleaned up. The performers chat amiably with one another, parting to get home for the holidays for warm food and jolly company.
It made her lonely. She was here taking pictures of precious moments, while she can't even remember when she last took picture of her happy memories. It was a pity all she had at home was a black cat who asked for too much milk during winter. She packs her equipment and promises herself a hot cup of tea and a good book back home.
Rummaging her bag for her camera, she bumps into a person.
Her eyes travel upwards and she finds the familiar shock of white hair.
It's Wes' younger brother. The man on the piano.
"Soul. Soul Evans"
After Maka finished her cheesecake, she looked at Wes, who was currently reviewing her portfolio.
"You're an Evans, huh? So I'm assuming that you're the famed violinist?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm still not used to people knowing me."
"So tell me about your brother looks like."
"He look a lot like me, so you should easily recognize him."
She takes a few minutes to savor her perfect cafe au lait and regards him with curious eyes.
"Out of all the photographers here in and out of Death City, why me?"
"To be honest, you weren't my first choice. I had other photographers try to deal with my brother, but he's a bit hard to handle. A friend told me that you take no bullshit when it comes to your photography."
Maka just smiles into her cup.
He holds out his hand and Maka might have stared for seconds to long, because he starts to withdraw it. Smooth, Albarn.
The younger Evans' did bore a resemblance to his brother, but there were several noticeable differences. His shoulders were wider, his hair was longer, his face was all sharp angles and lines and ohmygosh were those red eyes? It didn't help that he was wearing a black pinstriped suit and a deep red shirt that made them stand out even more.
"Maka. Maka Albarn." Her voice is crisp and clear, cutting through the warm, damp air backstage.
"I saw you take pictures from the wings."
"I'm a professional photographer."
"Yeah, can you delete your shots of me?"
What.
"Um, excuse me?"
"You heard what I said. Delete. The. Fucking. Pictures."
Oh no he fucking didn't.