Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Authors Note: Standard disclaimer applies. Soul Eater is not mine and yes, wouldn't it be just heavenly if it was. Come to think of it-I probably won't enjoy it as much. As things stand I can play with it as much as I wish. This story will be short and it will eventually add up into a single shot. I'm just working out the kinks from not writing for so long so please tell me what you think. It would help-tons. I'm being serious. Er-trying to be-kuoren23
2011—I know…what the heck was I thinking…what can I say? My muse took the midnight train to nowhere. Editing. What else is there for one to do? Changes in some aspect of this tale…hope you'd like the edgier, angstier characters.
The Morning After
"It is not time for mirth and laughter, the cold, the gray of the morning after".
SOUL
The eternal blackness beneath his lids was beginning to wane. He tried to dismiss the sensation…hoping to gather within him the elusive strength to hold off consciousness at bay, burying his head in the seductive allure of cool silk sheets and the tantalizing fragrance he couldn't name. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind there rose a twang like the quivering cry of a plucked string shattering his already weak hold on slumber's fickle embrace. The faintest slivers of light tickled his blissful oblivion until it tugged and pulled at his awareness forcing heavy lids to open and face the dawning sky that beckoned like an insistent lover that would not be deterred.
Shit. Morning... I guess that means I'm still alive, damn it.
He stared at the dawning sky and wondered why his abused and clearly battered body even bothered to wake. He lifted a hand to massage the nagging ache on his temple when pains—sharp and intensely acute—stabbed into him like a molten poker. Other parts of his body joined in the pain fest soon after, making itself known the moment he gained consciousness with all the crass disregard and raucousness of an entire tone-deaf brass band. And it was all he could do not to curse aloud the bright ball of light that seemed to mock him with cruel cheer all those distance away.
Ain't it just my dumb luck the sun's out? Cursed Hades in seven hells, I hate mornings…
He turned on his back and tried to stretch cramped muscles and aching tendons hoping that this time he won't have to bite back another muffled groan of pain and infuriation. Sheer masochistic tendencies never felt as troublesome as it did the morning after one indulges in what amounted to little more than barbaric male posturing and uninhibited alcohol intake. And if that wasn't the worse thing yet, he couldn't even remember why he bothered to take part in the fiasco in the first place.
It wasn't like the woman was his.
And even if she had been, far be it for him to overly care for something that passes through his life like so much sunlight. Lovers, girlfriends and even the one-night stands that flowed and ebbed in the seas of his life learned one thing early on once they engage his short, if intense, attention—he answers to no one and nothing but his own rules. He doesn't abide possessiveness in himself any more than he would abide it in any casual partner. He was cool as ice and just as slippery like his tell-tale shimmering mane.
When you move they can't catch you…cage you…or tell you that you can't simply BE…
Women, booze, money—none of it matters. They ceased mattering after he realized that all three things—all that a man like him should be striving for—comes all to easily for someone like him. Nothing could hold his attention for long. The most elusive things always seem to find its way to his side with the barest of exertion of effort.
Money flowed into his coffers with the completion of a single job. Once, his accomplishment brought him pride—a sense of being. Once, he allowed the conquest to define him—to give him a path—a purpose to justify the endless toll of days when he felt like he had to hold on to everything lest it slips away and leave him. Days like those have gone farther and farther in between until even the one thing that he loved and cherished the most became his most loathed sin.
Booze was made readily available especially when people found out that it's the only means they have of making him act with any modicum of civility. He was never the most social of men—preferring the sterile environment of his workplace or the dark, shadowed nooks of his havens. His job thrust him into social events that were made a tad easier by the overflowing presence of spirits. It made him forget who he was no enough to trick people into thinking he was actually quite human—though the illusion never lasted for very long.
And women—women have been flocking to the side of men of power and wealth for varying reasons and with varying results. They came to his side for pretty much the same variation or combination of reasons. Once, the idea of conquering well-known names and taming them to his whim offered a unique opportunity for distraction but it faded quicker than his ennui over his job or the booze he consumed with wariness or abandon. The thrill of the chase has faded long before any of his "dates" noticed or bothered to inquire. Once he learned the ropes—women became nothing more than added condiment to the pleasures and comfort of a night out in the town. And he discarded them as easily as the hotel rooms he walked away from without so much as a backward glance.
He chanced a glance at the sky and cursed his body's innate affinity towards dusk and dawn. His cursed skin seemed so finely attuned to the change that he would inevitably wake—without fail—whenever dawn heralded the coming of a new day and the death of yet another one. He could count in the fingers of one hand the number of times when his body's internal clock failed him. Both occasions occurring long before he hit his puberty and both were directly a result from being too drugged up and in pain to motivate any action on his part.
Just what I don't need—a body that won't listen to its owner. Why is everything around me so damned annoying?
With a curse flowing from gritted teeth, he tossed aside the thick bedclothes wrapped around him and padded straight in to the large en suite bathroom to cleanse his skin of the all-too familiar morning-after stench of an extended booze trip. Somewhere in the back of his mind something—a minute detail that spoke of things out of sync with his routine nagged at him—telling him that this morning was a bit different but he couldn't put enough brain power of focus for it for the matter to fully register. Like an annoying gnat that flies around one's head in the dark, he consigned the elusive thing that nagged him into the furthest corner of his mind.
Unmindful of his nakedness and uncaring for anyone unfortunate enough to receive an eyeful should they be brave or careless or foolish enough to enter his private rooms, he only stopped on his flight towards the bath long enough to pick up a thick black and red towel from a cupboard. Reaching out he flipped the switch to turn on the lights, pausing at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the light coming from the bath. He cast a glance at the floor littered with piece of clothing shed willy-nilly the night before and made a mental note to tell his butler to see that the maids give the room a thorough cleaning before stepping inside, not bothering to close the door.
He stretched, yawned and scratched an itch on his chest, his eyes tracing the familiar if fearfully distinct scar that marked his entire torso with casual disinterest before he turned on the shower and waited for the water's temperature to heat up to the degree he preferred. He absent-mindedly adjusted the temperature, letting the water flow hotter than normally necessary, trying to recall if he still had some business to attend to as he lathered the sandalwood scented soap he favored all over his now drenched skin when a detail suddenly clicked into the early morning muddled mush he calls a brain. His body ceased all movement as his brow furrowed and his distinctive eyes narrowed in concentration, water cascading all over his unmoving body. Like an efficiently rewound reel, his mind supplied him with images of this his brain previously overlooked with razor-sharp clarity.
Click
Black silk shirt. Ripped open…buttons scattered on the carpet.
Click.
Steel toed boots. A pair of thick black socks thrown on opposite ends of the bed
Click.
Dark denim jeans, ripped, dirtied and sporting a spot or two of what looked like blood.
Click.
Plaid skirt.
Click.
Plaid.
Click.
Skirt.
Holy shit.
He found himself walking out of his shower midstream and dripping suds and warm water proceeded to his room to make sure that what his mind insisted was just a nasty overflow of insomnia and booze. He stood staring at the small scrap of fabric lying innocuously on the middle of his bedroom floor, his mind still refusing to yield the reason behind its presence. He swooped down and crushed the thin, surprisingly soft material in his hand and wondered why its presence bothered him so. He stood there uncaring for the passage of time or the pool of water slowly forming beneath him, ruining his criminally expensive carpet. He was still staring at what looked like a ridiculously tiny piece of cloth when he heard a soft sneeze, the faintest brush of silk against silk, a tinny swish of fabric as it's caught and slips and finally a startled squeak and a faint thud followed by blessed silence.
He realized belatedly that his body was moving closer to the bed without his express behest, weaving around the pillows that were scattered around the massive mattress, a strange case of curiosity running in his veins. The water clinging to him had been warm but it soon felt like he took a bath in ice water when he saw the unmistakable shape of a firm pair of legs and dainty arched feet, one bony wrist and a riot of honey brown locks cascading down the very naked back of a strange girl sting amidst the rumpled folds of his silken duvet. When the aforementioned head of unruly honey-amber mane turned around, Soul Evans—cynical eccentric, wayward scion of a wealthy family and current bad-ass of the Death City night scene—found himself for the first time in his life struck speechless—pinned in his place wearing nothing but a bemused look on his face and a wrinkled plaid skirt conveniently covering a strategic part of his masculine, all too naked anatomy. His mind—razor sharp at times and observant to a fault found purchase in his confusion by cataloguing the face that stared up at him, noting the pair of wide, shocked emerald eyes above a brilliantly blushing face and pale pink parted lips framed by an expanse of pale, flawless naked skin and a riot of hair the color of honeyed caramel.
Damn. I guess I did bring home a prize.
MAKA
It can't be real. This simply isn't possible. She must be dreaming. It has to be a dream. IT HAS TO BE! This can't be real—all this was just a vivid dream—I mean nightmare—yes, that's what it is. It's got to be a nightmare. One brought about by the unaccustomed alcohol her boss forced down her throat in hopes of loosening up. Yes, that's what this was. An alcohol-induced hallucination—the very reason she firmly believed imbibing any form or amount of alcohol is the quickest way to fry ones brain into oblivion. Here was her proof-positive that she has been right all along.
She was in a nightmare. Not a dream—no, she was in a solid 100-proof alcohol soaked nightmare of horrific proportions. Her brain cells has officially committed mass suicide on her and left tangible evidence of their petty vengeance.
There's a man standing naked in front of me.
Her panicked brained screeched, making her aware that on some level her mind has retained its normal faculties and functions—even if it was just to remind her of a fact she heartily wanted to forget. Like the fact that for some reason her eyes kept on straying on the streak of bubbles slowly cascading and melting down his considerable physique. Just where the heck did she come up with this dream guy anyways?
Why is he still staring at me? Don't dreams fade when one wakes up?
Why can't she be just like every other junkie that woke up the next day with a queasy stomach, a pounding headache and oblivion? Why is my imagination dripping water all over the carpet and looking quite real? And why is he still damned NAKED! Why can't I dream about someone fully clothed for Soteria's sake!
Next Chapter:
The Girl From the Night Before