Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.
Story Notes: This takes place before Soul is shipped off to The Academy and meets Maka.
Stalemate
by. Poisoned Scarlett
"Why aren't you dressed?" She shrieks, and Soul Evans startles away from the instrument that is kept captive in their music room. "The concert is in one hour – why haven't you changed? We're leaving in ten minutes!"
"I said I wouldn't do it." He sounds firm, staring at the grand piano that sits under a cloud of shadows again. He has blood-and-dirt eyes that burn with defiance when they meet with his mothers. They're the kind of thick mud you would get caught in, or churn the ashes of a friend into.
His mothers are cool jade; a forest of darkness and mystery. But there is nothing mysterious about the way they spark with anger; like a fire let loose amongst the humid underbrush.
"You don't have an option anymore – your brother is playing, and you are accompanying his piece on the piano." She says, with steel in her voice. She moves to block the door when he tries to leave, and is unfazed by his sneer. "Go change, now."
"No, find someone else."
"There is no one else – you have been practicing this piece for weeks! There is absolutely no way we can find someone else to play it on such short notice!"
"You've got friends, don't you? You told me if I couldn't do it, you'd find someone else to. So, go!" He spits, with venom. Against his will, his eyes dart back to the instrument that sits innocently in the center of the room.
It beckons for him, promising more than it can offer.
And he almost falls for its lies again but he stops himself; flinches away from it and faces the windowpane that is draped with thick, velvet, curtains in an effort to repair his decaying will. Through a crack in the drapes, he can see the sky is overcast and dark and gloomy and he can't help but feel it reflects his brooding thoughts, as his mother waits expectantly for his defeat.
But he will not bend to her will today.
He cannot play in that concert.
His insecurities anchor him in place; imprisoning him from expressing the tumultuous emotions that he harbors deep in his chest. Despite the years spent slaving over that instrument, playing and playing and practicing and practicing, he is no where near the level of his sibling, who never misses a beat and never goes too fast or too slow.
Unbidden, a memory arises. It is of his last performance a few months ago, of him bent over the keys and playing his own personal composition. Then the memory sharpens, focuses on the unease that downturns his mothers lips and the disbelief that raises his fathers brows. He can almost hear their voices, masked of the disturbance they feel, gently break him: "How about something happier, like what your brother plays? Don't you think something a little more bright would be better than…this?"
It is the way they say the word – this – that stalled his musical growth. He crumpled up that music sheet when they left him alone; tossed it into the trash bin and tore apart his notebook so it followed the same fate.
He can't be like this brother; he isn't as cheerful and talented and gentle as him.
And that's why he cannot play alongside him this evening.
His fingers play songs of darkness and shadows and his brother strums to sunlight and life.
That type of contrast is too stark to ever harmonize.
"Oh, lord, don't do this to me. Not now..." His mother groans to herself, staving off a headache by rubbing her temples. She paces, her heels clicking and clacking on the pale tile, and he watches as she takes measured breaths and tries not to lose her temper with him.
It doesn't bother him as much as it did when he was younger. He is unaffected by the looks she sends him; does not even flinch when she sighs sharply and faces him, jaw clenched and eyes tight.
"So, that's it? You're not playing?"
"Yep."
"For Christ's sake… Wes! Wes, come in here and reason with your brother!" She barks, and her frustration makes him smile. As if sensing his amusement, she turns and gives him a stern stare; a silent warning that goes unheeded.
His smile only widens.
"Wipe that smirk off your face this instant." She demands, frigidly.
Soul disguises his laugh as a cough but she's not fooled. "What?"
"Now."
"What? I didn't do anything!"
"Don't make me—!"
"Mother, I'll handle him." And there he is, Soul thinks moodily, his wonderful, wonderful, brilliant, brother. "Go wait outside – father's getting impatient."
She thins her lips but nods, stalking out of the room without another word thrown at her youngest.
"Just so you know, nothing you say will change my mind." Soul states when his brother closes the door behind him, his suit crinkling where his arms bend to cross over his chest. "Go ahead, do your worst." He smirks, but his brother his not amused this time.
"I don't know what your problem is, but you're going to this concert. It wasn't easy for mother to get us this spot in that theater, and you're not messing it up with your immaturity."
"My immaturity? Get over yourself, Wes, you know as well as I do that you don't need me there." Soul hisses, and his eyes are a storm of jealousy and hopelessness. "You're a big boy – you can do it all by yourself."
"That isn't the point! We said we'd perform together! They're expecting a duet, not a solo!"
"By 'us', you mean 'you', right?" He drawls, and Wes glares.
"I mean you and I, little brother." Wes patronizes, earning a scoff in reply. Soul's animosity disperses along with his resolution, and he watches as his older brother heaves a grand sigh. Wes takes measured steps as he approaches him but he walks past him, heading towards the piano instead.
"Do you know why you're the only one in the family who is trusted with this piano since our grandfather died?"
"Because you dumped it on me?" He answers, snidely.
"No, it's because you're the only one who can unleash it's true potential." Wes softly says, pressing a key. A high note rings out, fading as it reaches the vaulted ceiling. "Grandpa left you this piano so you can master it just as he did. He said it wouldn't be easy, but he was confident that you would never give up on it. Do you remember what you told him before he passed away?"
And he does. He does, and it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.
The words are as thick as rope in his mouth and as sharp as glass.
"I promise," they echo in his head. It's mocking, almost; said with such childish determination. "I promise."
"I was ten."
"A promise is a promise." Wes intones, without much humor. "And, so far, you're doing great. You've learned more than what mother and father anticipated you would. They thought you would give up on it by now, but you haven't. Grandpa would be proud."
There's a smile in his words. Soul doesn't need to look up from his shoes to know that his brother is smiling that genuine smile of his—the one that's contagious, disarming. His fingers pick at his jeans and he stops abruptly when he realizes this. Fidgeting was not cool, nor was avoiding the truth when it was practically being shoved in his face.
"So I'm a little better than the rest," he mumbles, unconvinced. "It doesn't change the fact that I—!" He cuts himself off. That was close. There was no need to go and say unnecessary things that would burden his gifted brother right before a big concert.
"You what?"
He doesn't reply.
"You what?" He repeats, but he is met with silence again. Wes raps his knuckles on the surface of the black piano before glancing at the clock. "Whatever it is, know this: I liked your compositions."
He freezes.
He can't seem to comprehend his words; can't seem to shape the scathing replies around his mouth because his throat is tight and dry.
"All of them – I went through them, y'know. I know you said not to go through your stuff, but I was curious. You worked on them so hard—you skipped meals to write them, only to have them thrown in the trash. You shouldn't have been so discouraged just because mother and father didn't approve of them. You play from your soul, and that's all that matters. So what if they are a little dark? It's what makes you you and you shouldn't throw that away to fit another persons ideal of music."
There's a brief period where even the walls themselves seem to hold their breath; await the explosive reaction from the hot-tempered younger sibling. But, instead, they're met with a weak laugh; a crack of knuckles, as Soul allows himself to look at the piano that had once caused him pain.
"I'm putting extra locks on my door." Soul decides, breezily. "Stop going through my stuff, Wes, that's not cool. You don't see me going through your things!"
"Does this mean I don't have to tie you up and throw you in the trunk?"
"As if you can." He snorts.
Wes chuckles and ruffles his hair on his way out the door. "Go get changed. We're late."
"Yeah, yeah. Tell mom I'm coming, before she pisses dad off again." He cracks a very small smile when his brother laughs and disappears out the door. Soul steals one last glance at the instrument sitting behind him silently, almost hopefully.
He walks over to it and his finger hovers over a key; unsure, tremulous. He steels his will and presses the keys that had calloused his fingers from rigorous practice.
G rings out.
And he decides he'll be just fine, as he runs to his room to change.
A/N: This was written for my Career Awareness class. What does writing a short story have anything to do with the class? Beats me. I was immensely pleased with the assignment, though, because it was something I actually enjoy doing XD When I first wrote it, I purposely excluded Soul's name and referred to him as 'he' the entire way. Soul's too much of a strange name, and my teacher would question my choice in names. And since it was supposed to be of my own creation but I was itching to write a Soul Eater story...yeah, would've been awkward to explain.
Hope you all like it! :D
Scarlett.