A/N: A collection of all the prompts and drabbles that end up on my tumblr page (fullmetalgrigori).
Title Quote: "To say that one waits a lifetime for his soulmate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soulmates, which takes a lifetime to perfect." ~Criss Jami
Prompt (by notanirishginger): Spoken Word Poetry AU
(Disclaimer: the poems I use in this prompt aren't mine. They are, in order of appearance: If I Should Have a Daughter, by Sarah Kay; The Sick Muse, by Charles Baudelaire)
She's seen him before, at this cafe. She's seen him, and she's heard him sometimes, but she doesn't think she's ever heard him, not really. The poems he reads are beautiful, but she's known they're not his ever since she recognized a snippet of Emily Dickinson (I think i was enchanted). But he carries a black Moleskin with him every night, so he must be writing something. Writing, but not reading.
Not like she does.
The lights are bright tonight, but they no longer bother her like they used to. The warmth is comforting, not stifling, and she doesn't need to squint to see the audience. She recognizes a few people here and there, but it's snow-white hair and red eyes that capture her attention. He's watching her with that apathetic look on his face, and suddenly Maka is filled with dread because he is in her poem, and she is only realizing it now, as she speaks the words aloud.
"And, baby, I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him."
She meets his gaze as she speaks, and though her heart hammers in her chest, her voice is steady. She has done this hundreds of times; a boy is not going to change that.
But then his lips twitch upwards in a smirk, and her breath stutters.
To anyone else, the break is unnoticeable. But his smirks widens, and Maka spends the rest of her poem avoiding his gaze.
She tries to escape as soon as she leaves the stage, but he's already cornered her. "The boy who lit the fire, huh?" he asks, still smirking. "You know me well."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He crosses his arms, and Maka catches a glimpse of black Moleskin tucked underneath his elbow.
The words are in the air before she gives them permission to leave her mouth. "Read one of yours and I might. Your real ones, I mean."
He stiffens. "What makes you think-"
"Emily Dickinson."
"That could have been one time."
"It's not."
He scowls at her, and she softens because she recognizes the fear from her beginnings. "You heard me. Now I want to hear you. Please."
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and it's so long that Maka begins to doubt. But then he sighs and shuffles his feet, untucks the Moleskin and climbs the stage.
Maka settles into the seat he'd vacated while he adjusts the microphone. He looks at her when he begins, and though the Moleskin is open on his lap, he doesn't look at it once.
"My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.
The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?"
He continues, and Maka is entranced. His voice carries his words with a grace that clashes with his rough appearance, yet there is a dark undercurrent that raises goosebumps on her skin.
He finishes abruptly, and there are a few seconds of silence before a polite smattering of bemused snapping breaks out. He nearly flings himself offstage and stalks over to Maka's table, throwing himself into the seat beside her.
"See why I don't read my stuff?" he grumbles.
"No," Maka answers. "I loved it."
He blinks. "Run that by me again?"
"I thought it was excellent. You're a fantastic poet…?" She trails off, because she is just now remembering that she doesn't know his name.
"Soul." He still looks bewildered, and she wonders how long it'll take to convince him that she truly means what she says. "And uh, thanks…?"
"Maka." She holds her hand out and he shakes it, but the gesture seems oddly formal since they've already starred in each other's poetry.
"I do have one comment, though." Maka says suddenly. Soul braces himself for the criticism, but he misses the mischievous spark in Maka's eyes.
"Green succubus, huh?"
He turns bright red. "Aw, shaddup."
Posted June 22 2014