Author's Note: While I was (re)writing the next chapter of It's All in Your Head, I wrote a scene that got me thinking and a plot idea came into mind, that just wouldn't rest, so here it is. In this story, it's pretty much canon, except for one thing. Maka has synthesia. If you don't know what synthesia is, it's basically when the brain automatically relates certain things to other senses at once. Maka specifically has chromesthesia, which is a form of synesthesia relating colours with sound, so that when she hears something, she sees it as a colour as well as hearing it. I had a lot of fun with this story, and I think it would be really cool to have synthesia, it would probably make life more interesting. I don't own Soul Eater. The title comes from a book The Phantom Tollbooth, in which there is an orchestra of colour that plays so that colour exists in the world.
playing the sunset
by: Setkia
"You can see it, can't you? The colour of his music?"
When Maka is six, her parents take her to see a symphony.
It's a mixture of browns and blues and greens and violets and it's disgusting.
She leaves crying.
It doesn't get better.
Pop looks too bright and nauseating. Country has weird yellows and browns and some greens that just don't mix well. Rock is loud and dark. Techno is slightly better, but the greys and whites just seem too stiff for her.
Maka gives up on music.
When Maka is eleven, she sees the shadows for the first time.
She follows the dark figures and enters a room with a grand piano, behind which a boy sits, his eyes closed.
It doesn't have the forcefulness of rock or the rigidness of techno. There's no sign of the uneasy sway of country, or the hyperactiveness of pop.
The shadows on the wall move like graceful puppets, coming to life and telling stories and tales and it feels as though the music is speaking to her. Despite the darkness the shadows are enveloped in, she doesn't feel scared.
She feels protected.
"What is that?" she asks.
The boy's eyes open and the shadows recede.
"Who are you?"
He speaks fast. She can't quite catch his colour.
"I asked you a question first."
"It's jazz. Now, who are you?"
Why can't she see his colour?
"You're …" she doesn't want to say empty. That sounds mean. So instead she says "different."
He scoffs.
It's weird. Most boys have dark colours, or obnoxious ones. Papa has a voice of yellow and it always makes her feel sick. Black*Star has a voice of orange and it hurts her eyes but he's nice enough.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"I'm here for the Meister/Weapon convention."
"So what, you're like a deathly toothpick?"
"I'm a Meister."
The boy's eyes widen.
"You?"
"Not telling."
"That's stupid. I told you."
"Well, I'm not telling."
"You're stupid."
"Oi!"
"Are you lost?"
"I'm not lost, I just don't want a stupid Meister who thinks they can control me!"
Maka grins.
The boy frowns.
"So, you're a weapon."
"Forget I said that."
"Nope," Maka sings.
It's nice, that he doesn't have a colour. It makes talking to him less distracting. People always say she won't meet their eyes when they talk, but it's not because she's rude, it's hard to ignore the hues that spew from their mouths. She can't focus on both at once. Besides, more often than not, the colours speak louder than their actual words and are always more interesting.
"So you need a Meister?"
"You wouldn't be able to handle me."
"I never said I wanted you to be my weapon."
She can finally focus on the person behind the colour, and the person she's looking at is a strange one. He has white hair and red eyes and pale skin. Are people always this strange? In a way, Maka feels like this is the first time she's ever seen one.
"Tch," the boy huffs. "If you're done now, why don't you leave me alone?"
"Maybe I will," Maka says. "Or, I'll tell Death that you're trespassing."
She needs to know the boy's colour.
"Death? As in, Lord Death?" the boy asks, his fingers stopping just short of playing again. Maka wishes she hadn't spoken. She rather likes the type of music he plays.
"Yup. But if you show me your weapon form …" she trails off, he can guess the rest.
"Are you blackmailing me?"
"Mayyyyyyyyyybe …"
The boy makes a great act out of looking behind him and glancing both ways before his voice drops low and he whispers "Are you sure you can handle it?"
Maka grins. "Dazzle me."
The boy smirks. He has blades for teeth.
"Watch this."
He lifts his hand and then in a flash, it's a beautiful black and red blade, shiny and sharp. There's no colour that accompanies the swoosh.
"Impressed?"
Maka shrugs. "Eh, I've seen better."
She's lying.
"I'm Maka," she introduces herself because she feels stupid having spoken to him for so long and never mentioning her name.
"Soul. Soul Eater."
Maka learns more and more about Soul.
He's from the wealthy Evans family, known for their musical talents.
He has an older brother named Wesley who plays the violin.
He is the only weapon in his family, with no proof of anyone else in his lineage having Meister or weapon genes.
He was trained in classical music, but he prefers jazz.
He has a liking for video games and thinks reading is a bore.
Maka still does not know what his colour is.
It irritates her. Sometimes she just stares at him when she hopes he isn't looking, trying to see if she's just missed it because she has never met anyone without a colour before.
People have colours. That's a fact, the same way the sky is blue, so why doesn't he?
Soul thinks she's weird whenever she does it, but it doesn't stop her.
Fighting together, both against and alongside each other, Maka thinks that Soul's colour should have slipped, at least once. She can't understand how it's possible she still hasn't seen it because really, she knows people who can conceal their colour, but it always slips out, in the end, the same way you can't hide your own shadow, no matter how much you try.
Even in the heat of battle, she can't tell what it is.
She knows she isn't imagining the colours, she's always seen them, but Soul Eater just seems to be someone without any colour to offer.
When they move in together, Maka learns a few things about Soul.
He is a relatively decent cook.
He drools in his sleep and prefers to wear boxers to bed rather than actual pajamas.
He often times is careless when doing the laundry and thus has pink boxers to show for it.
He does not use gel to get his hair to stick up at the odd angles that it does.
He likes to have snacks at ungodly hours of the night and somehow, always forgets about the one creaky floorboard each time that gives away his position.
Maka still does not know what his colour is.
She sometimes likes to guess what it is.
A part of her wants to say it's purple, to symbolize his deep loyalty he seems to have towards her (she knows he thinks she doesn't see him turn down those other Meisters who want to fight with him, but she does).
Another part of her thinks it might be orange, like Black*Star, because he is kind of loud and a bit obnoxious, but his presence isn't demanding and he doesn't scream that much, nor does he really seem too hyperactive.
She thinks maybe he's like Death the Kidd, with black at his core, for the sturdiness that he provides, and the stability that he comes with, add to that the colour of his music. He does have a bit of a demanding nature about him, and he does have a temper, no matter how often he schools his features. But it's not quite right.
On some days she thinks that he might be blue like Hiro, a load of anxiety and self-esteem issues hidden just below the surface, but Soul never seems to "lose his cool", as he likes to put it and she can't really say it feels right to call Soul blue.
Other days he seems more like Stein, a blazing gold, with the way he throws himself into things unthinkingly, the same way Stein has a drive for curiosity and knowledge, Soul throws himself on the ground, all in, whenever he gets into something, but it just doesn't sit well with her.
Sometimes Soul can be mauve, or he can be magenta, but he can also equally be turquoise or lime.
Soul's colour is still a mystery, and it's been three years and she just doesn't know what to think anymore.
"Are you Maka Albarn?"
The man blocking Maka's reading light looks like Soul, but when he talks, she's hit by a sudden wave of grey. His eyes twinkle and when he smiles, his teeth aren't sharp enough to be Soul.
This must be Wesley.
"Yes," she says. "Do you have a visitor's pass?"
"Oh!" Wesley Evans pulls down the corner of his shirt to reveal the lanyard with a pass on it. "Here it is."
Maka thinks it's kind of funny, that she's known Soul for years and yet this is the first time she's ever seen his brother. Soul talks about him, sometimes, and it was a pain pulling it out of him the first time, but he makes small comments about him every now and then.
His colour is exactly what Maka thought it would be.
"Why are you here?"
"Thought I'd check on my little bro," says Wesley. His colour is jubilant, jumpy. He's excited, most probably to see his brother he hasn't seen in several years.
"Soul's not here."
"I can see that."
Maka goes back to her book.
Wesley takes it away from her.
So he really is an Evans.
"You see, during my search for my little brat of a brother, I kept hearing another name. Yours." He winks. "So before I go and see Soul, I was curious. Can you tell me how he's been?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Being an older brother is funny that way, you tease the little one for a while and eventually they stop wanting to talk to you," Wesley says. "So tell me. Has he caused any trouble?"
Maka stands up and grabs her book forcefully from Wesley. The older boy looks surprised by the amount of force she uses to pry the pages from his hands. "Follow me."
Does Wesley think she's stupid? She's not going to talk about Soul without Soul being around. She doesn't know much about his family life, but Soul prefers to keep it private, and she's sure he has his reasons.
Maka doesn't know where Soul is. So she follows the shadows.
She stops outside the same room she first met Soul in, where he is seated, playing the piano. The shadows dance around the room, a beautiful choreography that feels so fluid and moving, Maka has to take a moment to think.
She hears a sharp intake of breath before she can put her hand on the knob.
"It's still the same chaos, then," she hears Wesley whisper.
"What is?"
"His music," Wesley replies. "It's always been weird and chaotic, kind of out of sync, sort of … claustrophobic, don't you think? Not very comforting. I love him to pieces, but he composes some dark shit."
SLAM!
Wesley's whole body gives out under the weight of Maka's book, but to his credit, he stays pretty silent, stifling a laugh, even. He grins at her. "You can see it, can't you? The colour of his music?"
Maka's eyes widen.
"You …?"
"I see it too," Wesley says. "Always have. I like to think it's what helps me compose such great music." He looks down at Maka. "You don't see it the way I do, do you?"
"I …"
"It's okay," says Wesley, "you can tell me. What do you see when he plays?"
Maka stares into the room with the shadows and the dancing figures with no real shape and yet all the shape they need. "I see … something I can't describe. Its figures dancing, to a beat that controls them, almost like puppets, but it's graceful and … it feels warm. Comforting. I feel … safe, when I see his music," she whispers softly.
Wesley tilts his head. "Do you know your colour?"
Maka has to admit she doesn't.
It's hard to know your own colour, it is your own and that makes it difficult to identify. She likes to think that, if she were to speak to herself and be able to see her own colour, it'd be something nice to look at, but she has a feeling it's green, with envy and rashness and so many other negative traits because she knows that colours only show the most encompassing features of a person and Maka knows her core has many bad things in it.
She shakes her head.
"Want me to tell you?"
Maka wonders if it's better not to know, that way she can't be disappointed in herself. She knows that logically, she'll probably find out eventually, someone will tell her, the same way she told other people when she didn't know what it meant (they always gave her weird looks when she said they were pruce).
Wesley waits in silence.
Maka stares at the shadows as they dance around the room. Whenever Soul plays, she can hear both the sound and see the colours. She can't always focus on both, or evenly divide her attention, but Soul manages to be heard as well as seen so clearly to her. She's swept away by it.
"I'd rather not know," Maka says quietly.
"Fair enough," Wesley says. He leans forward and she can feel his breath on her shoulder. She wants to push him away, she doesn't like that he's so close, but she doesn't, she stays put because it's rude to shove him away, even if she wants to. "But Maka, before I go, I just want to tell you your colour is beautiful."
Maka's breath hitches.
Wesley goes to open the door-
"Wait," she says quietly.
Wesley turns to her, an eyebrow raised. "Hmm?"
"Soul … what's his colour?"
Wesley frowns. "I'm afraid my brother doesn't seem to have one."
"He's always been like that?"
"Unless I'm missing something, yes," Wesley says and then he walks into the room and the music stops and the shadows recede and Maka watches explosions of grey interact with no colors at all.
Maka keeps in touch with Wes (he insists, he hates Wesley, thinks it's too formal). She refuses to tell him anything Soul won't tell him though and he respects her decision. Every time he speaks to her, he asks if his brother has developed a colour.
Every time, Maka says no.
She doesn't understand.
Everyone Maka has ever met has a colour.
Tsubaki is a lavender, full of sweetness and tranquility.
Liz is a clementine, a softer kind of orange that denotes her loud personality and her brashness, but also her ability to be gentle.
Patty is a shade of pink that can't quite be called by name but resonates with childlike wonder, energy, and curiosity.
Blair is an indigo that seems sensual and a little invasive, which is perfect for her.
Mama had been a calming blue, but Maka can barely remember much about her.
Everyone has a colour. Music, voices, sounds, anything that makes a noise leaves a colour behind. People's colours are a bit trickier, because they tend to encompass their personality, even sides of them that they don't know about, and so sometimes it takes her some time before she can fully decide what she wants to call the colour they are.
Maka has known Soul for five years.
She has never seen his colour.
"Hey, can you pass the salt?"
"Get it yourself," Maka says.
Soul grabs her book from her and she growls, reaching for it.
He holds it up above her reach, as he always does, making some comment about how she's too short. She knows better than to jump for it, because that will only provoke him more. Instead, she grabs his arm and forces it behind his back, twisting it at a bad angle.
"Oi, Maka, that hurts!"
"Give me back my book," Maka says, pushing against his arm even harder.
"Don't break my arm off! What if you do that and then I can't transform properly?" Soul demands. "It wouldn't be cool if the last Death Scythe ever were to break a week after being made!"
"Then give me my book!"
Soul lets it drop and spins around quickly, trapping Maka between the counter and himself. He chuckles. "You are such a bookworm."
Over the years, his way of speaking to her has changed. He sounds less gruff, more teasing. It's obvious all his insults hold no water and he doesn't intend them to. It's been years since he last said something with the intention of making her hurt.
It's annoying, at times like these where she can be so easily swept up in him, the same way she gets carried away with his music, that she can't see his colour. Even just a glimpse could maybe tell her whether or not he feels the same way she does.
"Oh, don't pout," he teases with a grin.
"I'm not pouting."
"Sure, Pouty Face."
Pouty Face?
It's clear from the way he scrunches up his nose that he realizes how lame that insult is, even if it's just a playful one.
"Do all cool guys trap girls in their own kitchens?"
"Only the cute girls."
Wait.
Soul's expression changes the moment he realizes what he's said.
Maybe Maka doesn't need Soul's colour to know whether or not he likes her.
Though his face is turning an impressive shade of red.
He kisses her and then it's like the world is an explosion of colour.
One colour.
It seems so obvious now, so clear to her, she can't believe she didn't even assume it was this. It's everywhere, it's all over him, his very essence is it, and it's beautiful.
He's fidgeting because he doesn't know why she's gone all quiet, he might be stupid and think it's because she doesn't like him, but he'd be wrong. Because now she can see his colour and it just confirms her thoughts that maybe she's been falling just a bit in love with him.
"Red."
He blinks.
"What?"
"You're red."
His ears turn pink. "Well, sorry I'm being uncool-"
"No, I don't mean you're red, I mean you are red," Maka says and she feels like laughing. It feels so right this way, how could she not have realized it sooner? Green and blue and orange and yellow and gold and black could never suit him, not her Soul Eater, because he is just so red.
"What are you talking about?" Soul asks and he's letting out a nervous chuckle she's never heard before.
"It's so obvious! I must've been blind not to see it before," she says, and this time she does laugh, tossing her head back, but when she finally meets his eyes, he looks upset, more red than before, a darker red.
"Look, you don't have to laugh at me-"
"Oh no, I'm not, I'm laughing at myself," Maka says and she starts talking and trying to explain but it's clear that Soul doesn't have the slightest idea what she means when she talks about the shadows and his seemingly transparent colour before now, so she gets herself under control and breathes in deeply. "It's not important, I'll explain later."
"Right …" Soul looks uneasy.
"In the meantime, can you kiss me again?"
Soul's eyes dart to her, he's clearly in disbelief. He laughs and then he's kissing her again and everything is so RED.
It was everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time and she feels so stupid for not realizing it. Sometimes she tries to explain it to Soul, but he always gives her a confused look and she thinks she'll get better at explaining it some other time because right now, she's just basking in the glory that is him and all his redness.
He's red for so many reasons and she realizes that no colour has ever fit anyone better.
Red is the way his eyes gleam when he gets an idea that he knows will get him in trouble, but he's so excited about it, he can't put it to rest.
Red is the way he moves so passionately in battle, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the fray, accepting nothing but success, and if not, then he'll die trying, but never surrender.
Red is his weird mixed parts of him that make him a short fuse on some days and overly patient on others, that when smashed together in the right combination, give you his temper, which changes on a dime.
Red is the way he moves, whether he be slouching, or running, or sleeping with his mouth half-open.
Red is the way he protects her with so much loyalty and ferocity, you'd think he was a lion about to attack its prey.
Red is him.
"You're so red," she says one day and he gives her a funny look.
"You keep saying that, what does it mean?"
Maka wants to tell him, she's imagined telling him so many times and has tried so many ways in front of a mirror. She decides she's never going to find quite the right words, so she just tries as best as she can.
"It's like … I see sound in colour," she starts slowly, glancing at Soul sideways to see if he has anything to say. He doesn't, he just watches her intently. "Whenever I hear something, I see a colour, and they tend to move, interact with each other. Like when Sid talks, I see earthy browns, and when I hear someone slam a door, I see black, and it kind of lingers as long as the sound is there and if it echoes it lasts longer. Does that make sense? I know it's a bit weird, but it doesn't really affect the way I fight so I didn't think it was that important. Everyone I know has a colour, every sound I've ever heard has a colour and-"
"And I'm red?",
"Yes," Maka says, folding her hands in her lap. She bites her lip and wonders if she should mention that when he plays she sees shadows dance. "You weren't always red though. At first you didn't really have a colour … I don't know why though, it's kind of complicated. I asked Wes, he says you never really had a colour before."
"You spoke to my brother about this?"
"Yeah …" Maka starts to play with a hole in her uniform. She should get it sewed up, but it serves as a good way to distract her when she isn't sure what to do with her hands. "Is this weird? What am I talking about, of course it's weird, I uh-"
"Red, huh?" Soul repeats.
"Yeah, red."
"Red's pretty cool, isn't it?"
Maka laughs and pushes Soul in the shoulder. He lets himself fall back slightly before sitting up straight again. He wraps his arm around her and she feels warm and protected.
"Do you know what colour you are?" Soul asks one day.
Maka used to think it would change how he interacted with her, but instead, he seems more understanding. He gets why she doesn't like big crowds, and he likes to ask her what colour different people are. It's fun watching him guess.
Maka shakes her head.
"You know … whenever Wes would call to talk, he'd ask about you. He called you Firecracker. I thought it was about your temper, but …" He laces their fingers together and gives her a sideways glance. "He was talking about your colour, wasn't he?"
Maka stares at Soul, at the way the red seems to wrap around him and encircle him, the way it stands out so boldly, it makes him so much more beautiful and fascinating than when she had first seen him all those years ago.
"I just want to tell you your colour is beautiful."
"Maybe."