Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.
Dance with the Devil
You've always been shrouded beneath the shadow of your older brother, forced to gather the morsels from his feast of classical light. You've only ever tasted a portion of that applause, only ever felt a fragment of that raucous praise. But, well… you're used to it, aren't you?
Besides, you're more of a jazz kind of guy, the kind that prefers to tap your feet to a beat only your ears can hear. That steady rhythm of drumbeat and snapping, that passion and improvisation that you can get away with — it's something Wes could never do with all his calm, remorseful, nostalgic violin.
(It shows — in the way you force yourself to hide that passion behind long, elegant fingers and stiff, stiff suits, in the way you present the mask with sharp, broken eyes and wide, wide smiles, all pointed teeth and dark sin, and nothing of the goodness buried deep beneath the skin.)
Except…
She can still hear the parts of you you forgot to chain, can still feel the bits and pieces that make up the Soul "Eater" Evans beneath the façade. As your fingers skim over the white keys, tapping against the black with your foot on the pedal, you feel her watching, always. It's… it's the kind of distraction that eggs you on, makes you want to break free and show the world what monsters they've birthed.
Without even realizing it, you begin to play harder, faster, and the piano becomes a medium for the darkness lying just beneath the skin. It isn't until the stunned silence wakens you from your sickness, fingers held up by marionette strings and lungs gasping for breath, that you realize what you've done. Your eyes are focused, determined, — lost in the insanity — and, you think, as your audience claps awkwardly, politely, if only Wes could understand.
With the entertainment coming to a close, the crowd disperses, breaking up into even smaller groups. Chatter rises to your ears, loud and false, and you grumble as the black, black high plummets. As you sip from your glass of wine, — red, like the blood still thrumming with adrenaline — you can't stop yourself from looking for that frightening woman — no, girl. You scan the crowds, see a flash of white teeth and, unbidden, olive mirrors look up to meet your own.
She cuts off the conversation, smiles in the way you hate, — fake and quiet and so, so unassuming — and turns to look at you fully. Her stare is piercing in its intensity, happy in its nature, and… it's frightening. Green, green eyes dance before you, like the sparkling, glassy surface of champagne, — or, like the shards of broken, liquor bottles that the alcohol comes in, you think — entranced by the dying fires of your music, your heart, your soul.
And, just like that, you're trapped, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Because, in the end, this flat-chested, smiley-faced girl with the blonde pigtails, this innocent, stupid creature who can't know, won't know, the danger she's put herself in — she's the only one that's ever stayed. Her presence is like a cage, and you can't move, can't speak, can't even glare at her or push her away or shout at her to just leave.
It makes you feel cornered confined, — or maybe just a little bit bothered, because you've never been in this kind of situation before, and, well. You quickly decide it isn't natural, not at all, and, when she finally walks up to you, you proceed to tell her so in the most kindest, simplest manner possible. Which, needless to say, means you give her the most cryptic, blunt introduction.
"This is the kind of person I am," you manage, demeanor reeking of calm and collection, — cool — and her eyes glint as she tilts her head just so, enough for your own red, red irises to catch the gleam of madness shining through. You feel more than see your mouth twitch into a smile, the more jagged edges surrounding your visage dampening in the face of understanding, and notice that she doesn't quite flinch at the sight of gleaming, shark-like daggers dangling from your mouth.
(She's just full of surprises, isn't she?)
Instead, she hums, grin stretching to encompass all of her, and asks, "Ne, ne, do you want to dance?"
You let out a chuckle, pressing the wicked tightness of your shoulders to relax, and let your eyes fall shut as you turn away. "I don't dance," you grouch, because though this small, petite girl with passion in her veins may interest you, she's not worth the effort of giving in. And, in the end, you don't — not really. You've never been much for these functions, anyway, and she is, by far, the highlight of your night here.
But. She won't take no for an answer, and insists, as she grasps at your arm and tugs at your sleeve, that you go along with her whims. "Come on," she breathes with wide, wide eyes, "It'll be — "
You sigh, knowing you've lost the battle before it's even begun, and unclasp her fingers from the fine cloth, releasing the death-grip. Spreading your legs, you push back the silver strands of hair that block your peripheral. The girl pouts, and you can't help the forgiving smile as your eyes soften.
"Please, Soul?" she asks, her hands on her knees and her bangs falling over her eyes — ones promising light and joy, even in the darkness. You feel the last of your resistance die, and take the proffered hand, and she pulls you up — but not before you accidentally press down on a number of keys, creating a cacophony even you wince at. The guests are long gone, though, and her smile makes everything a little darker, a little brighter; you look away, suddenly uncomfortable with this arrangement, and scratch your head, because, wow, isn't this just plain awkward?
(Besides, you have other things on your mind, and you desperately hope that this girl, who may or may not be like all the other socialites, is worth the interest, though you don't know why.)
You let yourself be pulled to the center of the ballroom, and reach for her as she lets go of your hands to twirl around, a blur of autumn shades. Her plaid skirt flutters a bit, and the bizarre plainness of her is so astounding, so natural, that you don't realize when, exactly, she returned. All you notice is the fingers lightly pressing into your shoulder, — digging hard enough to draw blood, you think — the flesh tangling itself into your other hand. "Man," you snort, "This is so uncool."
"Oh, shut up, Soul," she huffs, as she wraps herself up in your arms, and the shine in her eyes is enough. You can probably forgive her for ruining your image, right? And, as the scent of death reeks from her very core, her bone-thin fingers clutching at you like you're her lifeline, you wince and smile, uncomfortable and shy and perfectly alright with all of this.
Her school uniform shifts with the music she hums, and you can picture the dark tresses of a dress flaring in tandem with the steps, all black and gray and shades of the night. "I'm Maka, by the way," she says, and gives you a loud, nervous widening of her lips.
You nod, answer, "Soul Evans," and grunt when she steps on your feet two times in a row.
Quietly, she murmurs, "I don't know how to dance, so…"
"So…?"
"So you should lead, okay?"
You nod, slowing down until your pace matches her, and take her through the steps, bit by tiny bit. Slowly, that same toxic poison of hers permeates the air, filling up your lungs and nostrils with goodness and murder and graveyard dirt. Somehow, it's nice, soothing, and makes you come alive.
(Because, you think, you're both drowning in the madness, and this — this is okay, isn't it?)
As the dance comes to a close, you give her a final spin and, surprisingly, she goes along with the dip. You're both breathing hard, fast, looking into each other's eyes and seeing a resonance of the souls within. You think you wouldn't mind spending the rest of your life seeing her dance, and wonder just when you became so lame.
Her spirit trembles in your grasp, wavers as you bow, ruminates as you press your lips to her skin, and you grin, all teeth once more.
It's invigorating.