Disclaimer: Do not own.
There IS an alternative ending to this, the second chapter. Enjoy. ^.^
A soft breath, shallow. As though the breather perceives something in the air no one else can sense. His eyes, normally bright and alive, are dull and dim. Almost black in the darkness of the empty room. His hands gently float mere centimeters above the smooth polished keys, hesitant. His heartbeat erratic, his pulse quickening with anticipation, his breath now coming in quick short pants, the breather gently lowers his fingers to the black and white keys, the old smooth ivory cool to his over-warm touch. He presses down, a sweet gentle note floats from his fingertips, hovering in the air- the first promise of spring, a shy boy confessing his love. A warm sweet smile curves pale chapped lips, and the breathers' eyes slip closed. He lowers himself to the bench slowly, much like his hesitation in pressing the keys, and now plays another gentle trill of notes, a melody telling the story of a sweet first date, a budding romance.
Slowly, progressively, he plays along this blossoming thread of love, coaxing the sweet sounds from the keys with the gentle persistence of a stubborn lover. Suddenly, his eyes snap open, an ominous trill leaping from his fingers, a lovers quarrel. His red eyes burn, his gentle smile is gone, the soft sounds are now hard and sharp, the callous remarks of a snubbed lover. He plays like a mad man, his fingers drawing out long and short notes, a screaming match, who can cut the other deeper? One scream is answered by another and the breather hammers upon the keys, who shriek in return and hit the air like the gods doing battle, his once-soft fingers now striking like a bolt of lightning and followed by a crack of thunder.
The breather is familiar with this feeling, the anger and hate, the betrayal. He too knows what it is like, and he plays this pain into his ferocious melody. Then, as suddenly as his anger had come… it was gone. The notes were soft, mournful. Sorry. So sorry, they whispered, his fingers once more soft, the hesitation of that new relationship back, but somehow more familiar, they come equipped with the knowledge that maybe they can't fix things, but by the gods they will try! He considers briefly leaving the story here, but thinks not. An unfinished song makes his fingers ache. So instead he plays on, the part of the sorrowful lover. These stubborn dogged notes hang in the air, and the snubbed lover turns slowly, musical eyes filled with tears like notes that drip to the floor like rain, and they embrace. All is forgiven. The song of love gently plays on, slowly coming to an end after what seems like years later but passes only in the blink of an eye. A long life, full of love and happiness, a painless death, a brief parting, a joyous reunion, and then, too soon to the ears of many who will never hear this song, it ends.
The last notes are born, drift and die on the breeze. The breather releases his breath only to draw another, but it is difficult, as though he has just run a marathon. His heart and Soul have all gone into that one piece. Just over five minutes of magic to tell the story of something so beautiful. So wonderful, such a lovely dream. So false.
This is not his story, his story is much sadder, heartbroken, a path of pain paved with the bricks of betrayal and held together by a mortar mixed with tears. He runs a calloused finger over the fine silk of his pinstriped suit jacket, then adjusts his black silk tie and finally his red cuffs. He cracks his knuckles and sighs, staring at the old ivory.
Once more lifting his fingers to them, he plays something from the inside, from his story, his dreams. It is sad, bittersweet, a little boy crying in a dark room, sent away without dinner for forgetting his scales. A little boy who isn't Wes. A little boy who grew into a sad young man. A sad young man without a family. A young man who broke his lovers' heart, and his own, and knows, knows he cannot fix it. The 'I'm sorry' stage has arrived, the regret flowing with it. The 'forgiveness' however will never be his.
The breather pauses again, and in the lull of the music, the soul of a soul in agony reached his attuned ears. He turns. A girl stands in the doorway, her evergreen eyes are filled with pain, sorrow streaks her pretty face. She says nothing, at first. But that's alright. He knows this girl, she knows what he has been through. Her presence is all he needs in this moment. He is ready.
A sob rips itself from his chest, the first sound he has made in three days. He reflects briefly that his lover would be proud. The number was, after all, symmetrical. Another sob racks his body, followed by another and another, soon, the girl with her neat plaid skirt and her soft blonde hair is sitting beside him, and she's everything he is not.
She is calm and composed, unlike the breather. She is messy and chaotic, organized but not obsessive, unlike… unlike… at the thought of the one he lost; he cries harder, large transparent tears streaking his face like his song had streaked hers.
The last thing he had said to his lover comes back to him, hitting him like a punch. "You're so annoying! Why can't you be normal?" Each word hits him, over and over, and he feels as though he will be sick. His lovers' eyes had filled with tears. "You don't mean it…" Of course he hadn't. But he'd said the damning words anyway. "Like hell I don't! Symmetry this, symmetry that! Get a life! Fuck, I hate you!" He had stormed from their home and not returned.
The day he found out, he had still been a little mad, mostly at himself, and he was stewing over the argument. It had been so stupid, and his anger had been draining away. Of course, Kid couldn't control his OCD; he'd lived with it for so long. It had been his fault, his alone, for exploding on his lover, who had left for a mission shortly after he had left their home.
"Soul…"
"Go away, Maka. I don't want to talk about it."
"Soul… Soul sit down."
"Maka I said-" He had whipped around. The girl had tears rolling down her small face. He'd sat with a plop. "Soul, he... he died." Soul didn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. There could only be one 'he', but he had to be sure. There was still hope… but there wasn't, and he knew it.
"He..?"
"K-Kid…" Maka had sobbed, and Soul… Soul had died a little, had been dying ever since Kid had left. He shut down.
"I- I didn't tell him I love him…" He sobs soundlessly into the girls' shoulder.
"He knew."
"But how could he? I told him I hated him!" The young man sobs harder.
"But he still knew. He told me so. He loved you too… He was looking for you before he left. He loved you Soul."
And Soul's heart is empty, because it isn't there anymore. It isn't his anymore. It had died, like Kid had died, and he was going to be alone, forever. Maka hugs him tightly. "I'm sorry, Soul. So, so sorry."
"Me… me too." He whispers, his sobs dying down, but tears still flowing freely. "Me too."