A/N- Well, here's one of my many entries for the SE Reverse Resonance Bang (Reverb) 2015! Hazard of being a mod is somehow ending up with more projects on your plate than you know what to do with... hmmm...
ANYWAY, my artist partner who devised the basis for this AU is translucentsprinkles, and the cover image for this fic is hers. I'll include a link to her work in my profile once she has posted. I hope I did her art justice, because if I'm being honest, I haven't been in a dance studio since I was ten or eleven and have forgotten nearly everything of significance.
Hella shoutout to Professor Maka, who took time out of her birthday to beta this for me. You are the absolute best, ProMa, and I dedicate this fic in all its fluffiness, to you.
Maka sprinted down the street, gulping down lungfuls of the sticky July air. Her duffel bag thumped against her thigh. Between breaths, she muttered a long litany of violent cursing against the fuckbucket who had taken her usual parking spot… and the dumbshits who had taken every other spot in a four block radius from the academy.
It was unlike her, but she had been running late anyway, and the extra time she had spent circling the block trying to find a spot— any spot— to park in had put her severely behind schedule.
She finally reached the door she was looking for, wrenched it open, flung herself into the relative darkness within, and took the stairs two at a time. At the first landing, she stopped for a moment, hand on the railing, and took a few deep breaths. There was nothing she could do about her flushed and sweaty face, but she could at least be composed and not horribly out of breath when she arrived at work.
Miss Marie's Academy of Dance had retained its name long after the proprietress had exchanged her Miss for a Mrs. It was housed in the upper two floors of a building on Main Street that was far longer than it was wide. The building was easily a hundred years old, with embossed copper ceilings that had long since turned green. The large, open rooms made for perfect studios, but the newly-installed maplewood floors contrasted sharply with the turn of the century architecture that characterized the rest of the building. The entire place smelled of dust and resin, a warm, comfortable smell that persisted no matter how immaculately clean the rooms were kept, as if the scent had sunk into the walls and the changing room carpets.
She climbed the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door, trying and failing to keep the eternally-sticky hinges from squeaking. Maka winced; she had been hoping to sneak in and get into the studio where her class was surely already waiting for her without encountering Marie. The soft disappointment Marie would express to students and staff who arrived late was much worse than any tongue-lashing could ever be, because she was so nice about it.
Well, maybe she'd still be able to—
"Maka, is that you?"
Or maybe not. Damn.
"Yeah," she called. "Sorry I'm a little behind schedule, there was this—"
Marie poked her head out from her office. "Don't worry about it, hon," she said cheerfully. "Come on in here, there's someone I'd like you to meet!" She gave a little wave, gesturing Maka eagerly toward her.
Still uncertain whether she was in trouble or not, Maka stepped forward into her boss's office.
The office was in its usual state of organized chaos. The filing cabinet drawers were hanging open and there were no less than three stacks of manila folders several inches high on the desk and floor; Maka was willing to bet there was probably at least one more somewhere she couldn't see. Marie had an incredible work ethic, but Maka doubted it would ever be directed at controlling her workspace.
She was beaming as she ushered Maka inside, and for a wild half-second, she thought she was finally going to meet Marie's elusive husband. She'd known a few of the… "gentlemen" her boss had dated before settling down with her husband, and the cream of that crop had been an ex-con with a NOFUTURE tattoo over his eye that he'd gotten in prison. At first glance, the man loitering in the office, leaning on a bookshelf more occupied by broken laces and mugs still half-full of last week's coffee than books, seemed to fit Marie's weirdo quotient nicely.
When she took a closer look, however, she was immediately disabused of that notion. White hair or no, he was way too young, and Marie might have questionable taste in men, but she was no cougar.
"Maka, I'd like you to meet our new resident pianist, Solomon Ev—"
"Soul," he interrupted, sticking out his hand. "Nice to meet ya."
She shook his outstretched hand, feeling the calluses on his fingertips before he drew his hand back. "Likewise," she said, meeting his eyes squarely. "My name's Maka Albarn. I teach intermediate and advanced ballet, and intermediate jazz."
His eyes, which had been dropping away from hers, flickered back up in interest. "Jazz dancing, huh?" He gave her a crooked grin. "I look forward to that."
Maka gave him a tentative smile in return, too busy trying not to stare at his unusual appearance— which she wasn't completely certain was natural— to offer up much enthusiasm.
"We're very glad to have you," Marie piped up, still bubbly even by her cheerful standards.
Maka nodded, latching onto that train of thought. "Yes, ever since Mrs. Hedstrom retired, we've been relying on an old boombox and it just isn't the same."
"I bet not," he said with another grin that made him look faintly predatory. It was a good look on him, she decided, and this time she returned his smile in full.
Marie stood off to the side between them, a knowing smile of her own lurking in the corners of her mouth.
Over the next few weeks, Maka discovered that Marie's assessment was entirely correct— having Soul on staff really was a blessing. His predecessor had been a gifted pianist, and very patient even with the youngest students, but Soul was… well, she didn't know what he was. She didn't know much about music. She only understood rhythm and the swell of emotion she felt when the choreography Marie developed for her seemed to align perfectly with the song.
But Soul? Soul seemed to live and breathe music, seemed to become music itself when he played. She might not get music the way some people seemed to, but even she could tell that much. Any piece of music put in front of him he could sight-read credibly in an instant, and by the next rehearsal— if not by the end of the current rehearsal, even— he had a healthy familiarity with the music and could lead the class beautifully. There was an elegance to his playing so obvious that even Maka could sense it, something that Mrs. Hedstrom, though talented, had lacked.
The word virtuoso came to mind, and more than once she wondered what someone like him was doing in a place like this.
He was a bit of an oddball, too. He was quiet most of the time, and Maka got the impression that he was shy, but he had been known to complain— loudly— when he had to repeat the same twelve bars twenty times in a row because the four-year-olds she was teaching were having trouble with their alignment. More than once she had hurled a slipper at his head for upsetting her class.
He was arrogant and self-deprecating by turns, often thoughtful and always sarcastic, sometimes funny when he wasn't trying to be, and he got under her skin so easily it was almost comical. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. Maka got the impression that his snarky comments might be an incredibly awkward attempt at flirting. She probably would have thought he was just being an asshole except for the fact that he deliberately took his time with packing up his bag and generally loitering around while she was changing her shoes and supervising her students' exit from the studio, just so he could ever so conveniently be heading out the door at the same time she was, to walk with her down the stairs.
All in all, the whole package that was Soul Last-name-still-unknown was intriguing to her. Intriguing and cute.
One evening at the beginning of August, however, he broke their usual pattern. She was crouched on the floor removing her slippers a few feet from the piano when he looked up from the lazy shuffling of sheet music that didn't seem to actually be achieving anything.
"Hey, Maka?"
"Mm?" she asked, focused on lacing up her cross trainers.
"Why do you work here?"
She looked up at him to find those garnet eyes watching her intently. "What?" she asked, confused.
Soul shrugged. "I mean, I've seen you dance with Jackie, and when you're trying to teach kids who are only here because their parents want them taught to be coordinated enough to walk and chew gum at the same time, and you're amazing." He blushed bright red, and Maka got the impression that he had been intending to play this much cooler. "You… I mean, you're confident and stuff. Didn't you ever want to perform?"
Maka laughed a little, without much humor. "Yeah, I did."
"So what happened?"
She appraised him with a sardonic eye. "I could ask you the same thing."
The blush that had been fading away returned in full force on his cheeks, and he ducked his head to focus very intently on the clasp of his messenger bag. "That's different," he said. "I'm not talented enough… I mean, I guess my family hoped I'd…" He heaved a deep sigh, and with what seemed like a great deal of effort, looked up at her. "I kind of hate being onstage," he said. "All those eyes on me."
Maka nodded. "I can understand that. It's intimidating."
"But you wanted to do it anyway," he ventured.
"Yeah."
"So what's stopping you?"
It was her turn to glance away, as she threw a bittersweet smile at the floor. "I dropped out of the conservatory when I was nineteen. My grandparents were getting really old and needed someone to take care of them. My mom wouldn't do it, and she didn't have any siblings, so there wasn't anyone else. I'm Japanese on that side and… I don't know, it's not right to stick your relatives in a nursing home when they can't take care of themselves anymore. Family should take care of their own."
When she ventured a look up at him, there was something like awe in his expression. "So you gave up your dream to look after them, then."
She shrugged. "It wasn't really a hard choice to make," she said. "I think about how it could've been sometimes, but I don't regret it. I'm happy I could make my grandparents' last years more comfortable."
"Do you ever think about going back?" he asked.
"All the time."
Even at night, during the warm weather of mid-August, the streets of downtown tended to be pretty busy, especially on a Saturday. If it weren't for the distinctive shaggy mess of Soul's bone-white hair, Maka never would have spotted him in the crowd. As it was, she had to look twice to make sure it was actually Soul she was seeing and not just some old guy with an Einstein-esque sense of style.
Once she had determined that it was, in fact, her pianist, she called out his name, jumping and waving so that he would see her over the taller people filling the sidewalk. He turned to see who had shouted, eyes widening for a moment before he snorted and shook his head. He doubled back and met her in front of the vintage vinyl shop.
"You... are a dork, you know that?" he said by way of greeting.
She shrugged, grinning. "I didn't expect to see you here! What are you doing out so late?"
"Just family stuff," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You?"
"I was just heading over to Frankie's." Inspiration struck her and she knotted her fingers together behind her back, bouncing up on the balls of her feet eagerly. "Would you like to come with?"
His eyebrows furrowed in adorable confusion. "You're asking me to go to a bar with you?"
She giggled. "That's what I said, isn't it?"
That enormous shark-grin was back on his face. "Sounds like a good time. So, Miss Albarn, can I buy you a drink?"
She laughed again, charmed. "I see no reason why not!"
Frankie's was a little dive on a quiet side street downtown, not as obnoxious as the sports and country bars on Main Street or as rowdy as the clubs. It was a laid-back place, with a neon tube Guinness sign hanging in the window, an ancient pinball machine in one corner and a jukebox with a highly eclectic selection in the other .
Once they were inside, Maka started scanning the room, eyes darting across the thin crowd. Before Soul could figure out what she was looking for, she grabbed his hand. For a half-second he was elated, but then she dragged him to a large booth to the right of the bar, and he suddenly realized that this was a group outing. His stomach, which had been doing excited backflips from the second she had asked him to come along with her, settled down heavily.
So this was a friend thing. A very friendly invitation from Maka, who was naturally friendly, to go on a friend outing with her friends. Friend-like.
Fuck.
Well, he only had himself to blame for getting his hopes up. Maka's invitation had been kind of ambiguous, but he was the one who had let his stupid crush run away with him.
When they reached the table, he was relieved to find that he already knew most of the people there. If it had been a big group of strangers, then Maka or no Maka, he would have bailed faster than a sailor in a sinking lifeboat. But he recognized Tsubaki, the beginning ballet and jazz teacher, and Kim and Jackie, who taught ballroom styles. There were three other people he had never met before, and Maka eagerly introduced him.
"Soul, this is Ox Ford," she said, pointing to a bald-headed guy sitting uncomfortably close to Kim. He would have felt an "our hairstyles make us look like old dudes" kinship with the guy, except he also looked like a pretentious douchebag with the ugly sweatervest he was wearing. "Ox teaches up on the third floor, he's our tap instructor. And that's Kilik over there in the corner, he teaches the beginning and advanced jazz classes, as well as beginning hip-hop."
Kilik reached across the table to shake Soul's hand. "Hi, I'm the token black friend," he said wryly.
Soul immediately felt put at ease by the friendly smile on Kilik's face. "Soul," he said, leaning over to return the handshake. "I'm the new pianist."
"Yeah, Maka's mentioned you," he said.
"I guess I don't really get upstairs much," Soul said.
Kilik shook his head, grinning. "Well, you wouldn't," he said. "No piano upstairs, which is why the tap and hip-hop classes are up there— we don't have piano accompaniment."
"Makes sense," he replied awkwardly.
Maka reclaimed his attention when she pointed to a stunning blue-eyed blonde sitting between Kilik and Tsubaki. "And that's Liz Thompson," she finished. "She's Tsubaki's girlfriend."
It was funny, Soul thought absently as he made some vague comment in greeting, that even before being made aware of the fact that Liz was both taken and gay (bisexual?), he hadn't been the slightest bit attracted to her despite how gorgeous she was. Lately, it had been harder and harder to muster up attraction to other women, and it was all Maka's fault.
He'd never really caught a case of the feelings this badly before, he mused as he slid into the booth next to her. He'd had the occasional crush here and there, had tried dating like a normal fucking human being, but nothing had really stuck. Nothing that left him feeling as cheesy and sentimental as Maka had a tendency to do. He just couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her.
Which, admittedly, could have something to do with the fact that most of the time he was around her she was in a form-fitting leotard that left nothing whatsoever to the imagination. But it wasn't just that she had amazing legs and an ass that had to have been sculpted by God himself. She was just… he didn't know what she was. He had no idea what to do with her and it was making him dizzy.
"Where's Black*Star, anyway?" she asked as she slid into the booth, interrupting his train of thought— which was probably good, because he was on the verge of getting so sappy he might as well make himself into maple syrup and get it over with.
Liz rolled her eyes. "Where do you think?"
Maka grimaced. "Making out with your sister in the bathroom?"
"'Making out' is probably a mild term," Liz said in disgust. "I try not to think about Black*Star being in any way sexual."
At that precise moment, just as Soul was sitting down next to Maka (and thoroughly enjoying the fact that the booth was just crowded enough that their thighs and shoulders were touching), the music from the jukebox changed. Some cheerful Elvis tune warbled to a close, to be replaced with—
"My anaconda don't, my anaconda don't, my anaconda don't want none—"
Soul groaned. "Who the fuck paid 75¢ to listen to this garbage?" he wondered aloud.
Ox was shaking his head. "Speak of the devil…" he muttered, at the exact moment that a muscle-y Japanese guy with hair spiked to hell and dyed an eye-searing shade of neon blue came bounding up to the table like he was spring-loaded, trailed by a curvy blonde who could only be Liz's sister.
"DIS MAH JAM, BITCHEZ," Blue Hair proclaimed in what was most definitely not an indoor voice. "WHO WANTS TO COME GET REKT IN A DANCE BATTLE WITH THE GREAT BLACK*STAR?"
"Ooh! Me me me!" Liz's sister proclaimed, launching her hand into the air like they were back in the third grade and bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly.
"ANY OTHER VOLUNTEERS?"
Dead silence and unamused stares were his only reply, but he didn't seem to mind, grinning good-naturedly at them all.
"We'll pass this time, Black*Star," Tsubaki said kindly after a moment.
"ALRIGHT, MORE DANCE FLOOR FOR ME, THEN!" he proclaimed, grabbing his pretty companion's hand and dragging her off in the direction of the open space at the back of the bar.
Soul stuck his pinkie finger in his ear and wiggled it around a bit, trying to determine if his hearing was permanently damaged. Blue Hair had been standing painfully close to him with that loud mouth of his.
"That," Maka said dryly, "was Black*Star."
"I gathered," Soul said. "Who exactly is Black*Star?"
"He's the other hip-hop teacher," Jackie explained.
"He's not actually as good as Kilik—" Kim added.
Kilik grinned. "Why thank you, Kim."
"—but since he literally never shuts up about how awesome he is, Marie took pity on him and lets him teach the advanced classes."
"Just never let him hear you say that," Maka whispered to him. The laughter in her voice brought a grin to his lips, and her breath on his ear brought goosebumps to his skin, and just like that he was back in Smitten La-La Land again.
Soul tuned out of the conversation, hazily watching as Black*Star did an unusually athletic version of the worm while the blonde danced behind him, doing what he thought might be an extremely misplaced stanky leg, not really taking in what he was seeing (which was probably a good thing). He was too busy daydreaming to focus on much going on outside his head. He was especially pleased with the idea that if he had the balls to ask Maka out, she might not reject him on the spot.
He was aware that all his fluttery feelings were only destined to make him unhappy. Sometimes he thought maybe Maka was flirting with him, but then he remembered that she was a naturally friendly person. Not to mention there was no way he was her type. She wouldn't go for an awkward, ambitionless black sheep. Maka would probably be into a really put-together guy, the kind of guy who would play soccer or lacrosse recreationally, and drink vodka martinis, a guy like—
"Kit!" Maka exclaimed, right next to his ear. She bounced in her seat, and he wisely slid aside so that she could squeeze out. He watched in mild horror as she flung herself at the tall, pale young man who had approached the table. He was slim and handsome, with odd concentric circles bleached into his shiny black hair, and he wore a casual black sports jacket. He looked very put-together.
Fuck.
"When did you get back in town?" Maka asked the newcomer after a brief hug.
"Just tonight. Liz informed me that you all would be gathering here."
She gave him a look that managed to be both fond and accusatory. "I seem to remember you saying you'd only be in Nevada for a week. That was a month ago."
The dark-haired man shook his head. "I am sorry, Maka. Resolving the situation took much longer than my father had lead me to believe before I flew out."
Maka grimaced. "Right. About that… how is your brother, anyway?"
"The same as always," he said resignedly. "His parole officer is at his wits' end this time. I swear, one of these days he's going to give our father a heart attack."
Maka thumped his shoulder sympathetically. Then she turned back to the table where the rest of the group was sitting. "Kit's here, everybody!"
"We hadn't noticed," Liz deadpanned.
Her good mood not dampened in the slightest, Maka said, "Kit, this is Soul, our new pianist." She gestured grandly in Soul's direction.
He nodded courteously, extending his hand for Soul to shake.
"Soul, this is Darby Thelonious Kristopher."
"Kit," the other man said, in a tone as firm as his handshake. "Kit Mortimer." Shooting a dirty look at Maka as he released Soul's hand, he added, "Must you always tell people my full name?"
Maka assumed an expression so naïve it couldn't help but arouse suspicion. "It's my duty as one of the only people who actually knows your name," she said primly.
He shook his head with a heavy sigh. "You are not one of the only people who knows my name," he said, "because you have told absolutely everyone about it."
Maka giggled. Soul felt a little bit sick.
He might have left then, except that Maka immediately plopped down beside him again and scooched him over so he was sitting more in Ox's personal space than he was necessarily comfortable with. Kit slid into the seat to Maka's left, and regular conversation resumed.
Despite the fact that for a solid five minutes the topic under discussion was Kit's month-long absence and how he had sorted out his delinquent older brother's latest run-in with the law, Soul found himself reluctantly enjoying the company. It wouldn't kill him, he supposed, to socialize a little more than usual. After the "I'm proud of you for finding a job you're comfortable with (but also Mom and Dad will never forgive you)" speech he'd gotten from Wes earlier, spending some time with people who could be both well-meaning and non-judgmental at the same time was probably good for him.
Besides, it was interesting to see Maka and her friends outside of work. Kim was much calmer than she seemed in the studio, while Jackie, conversely, was much more uptight. He discovered that Tsubaki had a filthy mind and someone (probably her girlfriend, based on what he had observed so far of Liz) had taught her the high fine art of "your mom" jokes.
Even Kit, he had to admit, was a pretty cool guy. He was the son of some big business tycoon, so on top of being man-pretty, cultured, and smart, he was loaded, too. Well, technically, so was Soul, but since he had never so much as touched his trust fund, he wasn't sure it counted. Either way, he was easy to be around and his thoughtful conversation was a blessed distraction from the sound of Black*Star screaming "TURN DOWN FOR WHAT!" All things considered, it turned out to be a decent evening.
After two perfect mojitos and a much less satisfying beer, though, he was starting to get a headache, whether from the alcohol (likely) or from Black*Star's ongoing display of his terrible taste in music (also likely), and his store of social energy was running dangerously low. He was contemplating bailing when, of course, things got decidedly worse.
A not-terrible song finally hit the jukebox, and just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, Maka clapped excitedly and said, "I love this song!"
Soul contemplated the idea of asking her to dance, immediately chickened out, and regretted it enormously when Kit turned to her and said, with an amused tilt of his eyebrow, "I believe it has been far too long since we've danced together."
"I think you are entirely right," she said with a grin, and followed Kit out of the booth before heading out to join Black*Star and Liz's sister out on the dance floor.
He stared after them for a minute, but when she took Kit's hand, he decided he had absolutely seen more than enough. Wrenching his eyes away from their interlocked fingers, he glanced back at the rest of the table, hoping none of them had noticed his heart getting strangled by his intestines. It looked like everyone was still caught up in laughing and group chatter, and he breathed a sigh of relief that his eternally bored expression seemed to have saved him once again.
Or maybe not, because Jackie caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic smile. Crap. The only thing worse than crushing hard on someone who was so far out of his league she was playing a different sport entirely was feeling all that and then having somebody pity him for it.
"I think I'm gonna head out," he mumbled. Perfunctory goodbyes were exchanged all around, and then he made a beeline for the door, feeling uncomfortably like a puppy with his tail between his legs.
The first time Soul didn't wait to walk downstairs with her, Maka assumed he had somewhere else to be. When it happened again the next day, she figured it was an unfortunate coincidence. By the third day, she was getting concerned, and by the fourth, she had also noticed that he wasn't talking to her normally, either. No more sarcastic comments, no more ironic eyebrow, just a nod or an "okay" when she asked him to take it from the top. He wasn't rude or unpleasant to be around… just quiet. And avoiding her. He clearly had a bee up his butt about something, but she couldn't figure out what.
It took her another three days to find the root of the problem. A muggy Monday in the studio had crawled by, as she wrangled teenagers dreading the return to school and younger kids who couldn't focus in the heat, and Soul complained intermittently about how the humidity was messing with his instrument. The very last thing Maka wanted to do after the day she'd had and the way he'd been acting was to ask him for a favor, but she didn't have much choice. Kit's free time was very limited these days, and if they were going to practice, it had to be arranged around his schedule.
And so…
"Hey, Soul?"
He grunted and didn't look up, but his hands froze in the act of stuffing his books back in his satchel.
"Would you mind staying for an extra half-hour or so tomorrow?" she asked.
He looked up, a very blank expression on his face.
"I know it's not part of your job, but I have a private practice with Kit scheduled, and having you play would be so much better than working with the old stereo."
Soul's expression didn't change. "Practice with Kit, huh?"
She nodded, unsure what to make of his look.
After a long pause, he said, "You got sheet music for me?"
She hurried over and opened up the old record cabinet that stood near the door and retrieved a little paper-bound sheaf of music, going yellow around the edges and dog-eared at the corners. She handed it to him and watched anxiously as he looked it over, flipping through the few pages of staff paper.
One pale eyebrow lifted, but he made no comment on the music itself. After a minute or two of looking it over, tapping his finger against the page as he caught the rhythm of the piece, he looked up at her.
"Didn't realize you and Kit danced together," he remarked.
Her brow furrowed up in confusion. "Of course we do, he's my dance partner."
For a second, Soul looked absolutely nonplussed. He shut down his expression back into that calculated neutral that was pretty standard for him, but she couldn't miss the few seconds of bewilderment. "Your… dance partner?"
"Of course, how did you think we knew each other?" she asked.
"I, uh…" He scratched nervously at his cheek, avoiding her eyes. "I figured he was your boyfriend?"
It was cute how his voice squeaked a little on the word 'boyfriend.' She giggled. "No way, Kit's been my dance partner since we were little. Like ice-skating partners, you know? By the time we were out of high school, Kit knew he wasn't going to be dancing professionally. He had a branch of his father's company waiting for him, and he liked that kind of work, but he still wanted to keep dancing as a hobby, so we stayed partners."
"Huh," Soul said. "So you're, uh, not dating at all then?"
She snorted. "Hardly. Kit's so asexual, boners whither in his presence."
Soul made a face at that, but he kept pressing the issue. "But you'd be interested if he wasn't, you know, not interested in that?"
Maka shook her head. "We grew up together, it's really not like that."
"Oh."
He looked helplessly flustered by the whole conversation, so Maka took pity on him and steered the subject back to neutral ground. "So will you be able to stay tomorrow?" she asked.
Soul nodded. "Got nothing better to do," he said, the casual phrasing quite at odds with the sun-bright grin bursting across his face.
It was good to see him so cheerful all of a sudden. An inkling of the reason for his sudden change of mood was occurring to her, but before she got around to what could (and she really hoped would) potentially turn into a more significant conversation, there was something else she wanted to bring up, now that he wasn't avoiding her eyes and rushing out of the room before she could get a word in.
"And while I'm asking favors," she added, "I was wondering. I have an— an audition on Saturday, and my car's gonna be in the shop. Do you think you could give me a lift?"
Soul shrugged. "Sure, so long as you don't have a problem with motorcycles."
"You drive a motorcycle?"
"I could afford that or a shitty station wagon, and there was no way I was gonna drive a car that uncool."
She snorted. "You're a dork. So you'll drive me?"
He nodded. "Gives me a great reason to turn down my parents' invitation to brunch."
"Thank you, Soul, I really appreciate it," she said sincerely, giving him a pretty sunshiney grin of her own.
There was a beat or two of silence as they made eye contact. The way he pinked up and glanced away after a few moments was telling, and Maka grinned. "Soooooo," she said, the smile showing through her voice. "You thought Kit and I were dating, huh?"
"Shut up," he muttered, hiding behind his bangs. "What else was I supposed to think?"
"Is that why you've been avoiding me all week?"
"Who said I was avoiding you?"
He was still blushing and failing to hide it, and Maka could not find his awkwardness anything but adorable. "Were you jealous?" she teased, drawing out the syllables for maximum embarrassment.
Soul managed to look her in the eye, recovering his equilibrium. "I'd think a nerdy girl like you would know better, Maka," he said, and it was his turn to sound teasing. "Jealousy is when you're possessive over something you already have. Envy is when you covet something someone else has." He gave her a supremely cocksure grin, snatched up the strap of his bag, and attempted to make a smooth exit from the studio, an effect that was ruined somewhat by the fact that he tripped over the rug in the entryway.
Maka stared after him, utterly baffled by the way he had managed to completely turn the tables on her. She'd had him right where she wanted him, and somehow he'd managed to wriggle out of her hands anyway. This boy was going to be the death of her.
"You infuriating asshole!" she shouted to the empty studio, kicking her duffel bag in sheer frustration.
Auditions were always stressful, but Maka had gone through enough of them that she wasn't the pressure didn't weigh on her too much. No, she actually felt rather calm. She'd been working toward this for months, and now the day was finally here.
The hallway outside the theater doors was chilly; the air conditioning was set too high, even for this time of summer. There was a cluster of young men and women waiting on the carpet, standing or stretching. They alternated between watching the closed door and eyeing each other skeptically.
It was a familiar look to Maka, but one she hadn't seen in a long time. Aside from perhaps voice majors, collegiate-level dance students were the most judgmental and competitive group of people Maka could imagine. It was normal to weigh your rivals, size them up and figure out how much of a threat they were. Even in a situation like this, where there wasn't actually any true competitive element to the audition (because after all, the DC Conservatory For the Fine Arts didn't limit the number of students they would accept, provided they met the program's notoriously rigorous standards) there was a sort of jealousy over their art.
There's no way she cares as much about dance as I do… Really? You're wearing that?... Who is he kidding with posture like that?
And Maka was receiving her fair share of scrutiny, or rather more. Even with her eternal babyface, she was obviously nearly a decade older than this little covey of prospective freshmen.
At that moment, Abadjiev, Naim emerged through the double door, which thumped loudly closed behind him, tap shoes in hand, sweaty and sagging, but looking entirely satisfied.
A woman with a clipboard followed him out. "Albarn, Maka?" she called. "You're up."
She rose from the bench, squared her shoulders, and strode forth to meet her destiny.
She entered the theater and toed off her sandals, replacing them with her canvas jazz shoes as quickly as she could. Once she was properly shod, she walked up the stage wings, handing the sheet music she'd brought to the pianist, who immediately began skimming over the pages, her foot lightly tapping out the rhythm.
"It's a little faster than that," Maka whispered.
The pianist nodded, and gave her an encouraging smile.
This done, Maka stepped out onto the stage proper, strode to the middle of the floor, and faced the judges of her fate.
She recognized one of them. Sid Barrett, who had been her coach during her abbreviated time here years ago, gave her a wink when he caught her eye. The other five, however, were unknown to her. Her eyes were caught first by the man at the end of their row, with a scarred face and hair gone prematurely grey, who seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. In the middle, sitting next to Sid, was a young-ish woman perhaps seven or eight years older than Maka. She wore her blonde hair bobbed short, and Maka had never been fond of tattoos, but the serpentine ink decorating the woman's arms up to the shoulder was amazing.
"Maka Albarn, correct?" she asked.
Maka nodded.
"Will you be performing your own choreography today?"
"No, my choreographer is my teacher, Marie Mjolnir," Maka said.
The silver-haired man with the scars shifted suddenly in his seat, leaning forward attentively.
The severe woman, however, was looking at her with active skepticism, and Maka felt her nerves— which up until then had been warm with anticipation of a top notch performance— fizzed into something that really felt like fear. There were differing schools of thought as to whether a gift for choreography was really necessary for a dancer, but the DCCFFA program had always emphasized that it wasn't fundamentally necessary.
Or at least… it had when she'd last studied here. But clearly several of the professors she remembered fondly had retired or moved elsewhere, and if the newer staff held different views…
It wasn't as though Maka was an abysmal choreographer. She did well enough with routines for her classes. For really important work of her own, however, it had always seemed wiser to follow Marie's guidance. At the moment, however, she was uncomfortably certain it was a black mark against her.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know before I begin?" she asked.
"No," the woman said. "We'll save any further questions for after your routine."
Maka nodded, made brief eye contact with the pianist, and knelt down in her starting position.
She had to hand it to Marie, the choreography she'd put together was excellent. It took full advantage of Maka's natural athleticism. Her energy and her flexibility were second to none, and the complexity of the routine was designed to highlight every last one of Maka's strengths.
Still, she could feel the strain, muscles that she'd thought were in fine shape protesting that she hadn't practiced nearly as much as she thought. Her breathing grew heavy and it became difficult to make her performance look effortless, but she dug down deep and found that well of strength within her. She might be less active as a performer lately, but she still had the will to power through something as simple as an audition, dammit.
When she was finished, she stood on the stage, arms uplifted and eyes closed. The heavy light from the catwalk beat down on her, turning the inside of her eyelids to burning red and drawing sweat from every pore on her body.
"Thank you," the blonde woman said. "Now, Ms. Albarn, it says on your application that you've been studying since age four, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let's see… performed with the DC Youth Ballet throughout high school… current teacher at a local dance academy… attended this conservatory for two and a half semesters… in 2007?" Her abstracted tone as she skimmed Maka's application shifted to one of astonishment, and not the good kind. She looked up sharply, and the ferocity of her gaze made Maka feel as if the older woman had drawn a bead on her.
"Ms. Albarn, how old are you?"
There it was, the question she'd kind of hoped wouldn't come up. "I turn twenty-eight in April," she said, head held high as she stared her judges straight in the eyes.
"Twenty-eight," another unremarkable member of the quintet of judges said, giving a low whistle, "and you're applying for a dance performance major? Are you sure you didn't mean dance education?"
"Entirely sure," she said firmly, trying not to notice how hard the scarred man at the end of the row was staring at her, as if he were trying to see through her skin to her soul.
Sid was giving her a sympathetic look, and Scarface was still staring, but the other three panel members were giving each other a variety of looks that made Maka even more nervous than she had been.
"Alright then, I think that's all we need to see at present," the woman said briskly. "The technique class portion of the audition will begin at three, next door in the Adelaide Building, room 042."
Maka nodded mutely and walked off the stage, robotically taking the sheet music the pianist held out to her. She changed her shoes again and slipped out the door just as the woman with the clipboard called in Boyd, Hannah.
She walked back to her bench and dropped onto it heavily. She knew she should probably be stretching out her muscles, but she needed to process.
Maka had never received that kind of response to a performance before. It was true that she was very old to be considering starting— or rather, resuming— a career as a professional dancer, but she was damn good, and her work spoke for itself… didn't it?
The excited buzz she had been feeling earlier was dissipating into a staticky, distant sort of homesickness. She had really thought she had this fresh start in the bag, that the audition was just a formality! After all, even when she was caring for her grandparents and only teaching part-time, she had kept her skills sharp with constant practice, involvement in amateur theater, and of course working with Kit whenever he could spare the time. Logically speaking, she should still be as good as she had been eight years earlier, when she had been a rising star in this very school… or at least, not very much worse!
Was her age really that much of an issue? Or was it her unoriginal choreography? Or both?
The next hour passed in a blur, as names were called, and one by one the flock of disgustingly young kids, barely out of high school, emerged victorious from the theater. At last, though, it was a quarter to three, and she was able to haul herself to her feet and down the sidewalk to the neighboring building.
She barely remembered, afterward, how the technique class went. She was on autopilot, relying on over two decades' worth of muscle memory to carry her through the barre exercises and floor work. Her mind was too busy trying not to panic to deal with anything else.
It was only as she was shuffling down the concrete steps at the rear of the building that something happened to break through her daze.
The man with the scars who had been one of her auditioners stepped out from behind the corner of the building, his glasses flashing in the afternoon sun. She startled a little, he had emerged so close to her.
"Ms. Albarn," he said. "I hoped I'd catch you before you left."
"O-oh?"
"Dr. Frank Stein," he said, reaching out to shake her hand. She reciprocated the gesture automatically. "I'm the director of the dance therapy program.
She tried to process this. "I didn't know there was a dance therapy program at DCCFFA."
"There wasn't until a few years ago," he said smugly.
"Oh." She couldn't dredge up anything else to say.
He gave her a wry look. "Not very talkative today, I see. Well, that's not surprising. I thought you might like to know you've been waitlisted."
Maka took a few deep breaths to try to settle her racing heart, in the hopes of hearing something besides her pulse pounding in her ears. "Meaning…?"
"Meaning that's the admission board's polite way of telling you to piss off."
Her stomach bottomed out and she swore under her breath. What the hell was she supposed to do now? If she couldn't get back into this school, where she already had a history and had proven herself capable, did she really have a chance anywhere else?
"However," Dr. Stein continued, "I may be able to help with that."
Maka looked up keenly at him. "What do you mean?" she asked warily. "And why?"
He grinned. "I carry a lot of weight around here. There's not much I can do about the fall term, but when the spring semester comes around, I can put a word in the dean's ear about you. And as for why…" His grin grew ever so slightly manic. "I enjoy sticking it to Medusa Gorgon. I find her reactions amusing. But if you'd prefer to attribute it to more altruistic motives, consider it a favor to my wife."
"Your wi—?" The penny dropped. "Wait, Dr. Stein? You're Marie's husband?"
"I am indeed."
"Wow," Maka said, really feeling revitalized now. "I feel like I just found a unicorn or something. Half my coworkers think Marie made you up."
He snickered. "And by 'half your coworkers' you mean Kim Diehl, am I correct?"
Despite her current mood, Maka found herself fighting a smile. "I plead the fifth."
"Wise of you."
"So," Maka said, steering the conversation back on topic because she was still unable to believe her luck, "you're going to get me in?"
Dr. Stein held up one finger. "Conditionally. Watching you, it's glaringly obvious that you spend more time teaching than you do practicing yourself."
Reluctantly, Maka nodded. "Lately, there just hasn't been enough—"
"Enough time? That's an excuse and you know it. I know for a fact that you have two hours off between your classes three days a week, and I also know you spend most of that time in my wife's office, chatting with her about god only knows what."
Unfortunately, what he said was all too true.
"I don't want to see Maka the teacher," he said. "I want to see Maka the dancer."
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
The professor stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks, rocking up on the balls of his feet momentarily as he grinned at her. "There's a senior and staff recital at the end of November. Show me what you can really do. Impress me, and I'll light a fire under the admissions board for you."
Maka nodded. "I won't disappoint you," she promised recklessly.
"I hope so," he said, and then, with only a backward wave of his hand in parting, he turned on his heel and ambled away.
Left staring in his wake, Maka's head was brimming with ideas and conflicting emotions. The one that eventually fell out of her mouth was: "What the hell does she see in that guy?"
.
"How'd it go?" Soul asked a few minutes later as Maka swung a leg over his bike.
She didn't respond immediately, preferring to focus on adjusting the backpack in which she was carrying her shoes, tights, and leotard. Once her belongings were secure, she tried to do the same for herself— she wrapped her arms around Soul's waist, and rested her forehead against his warm back.
"Maka?"
She sighed, and settled in more snugly against him. "I don't know," she said. "I really don't know."