Sooo many thanks to my betas for wading through this while it was still a steaming pile of crap. You can find earth-shines, rebornfromash, l0chn3ss, sojustifiable, redphlox, professor-maka and makascythemeister all on tumblr! Also many, many thanks and creds to sojustifiable for shark blocked.
My partner, resonicance, and his art can be found on tumblr as well!
Black suits, Soul realizes, are not great summer attire.
Not just because they're stuffy and involve a ton of fabric swaddling his sweating form, but because black attracts the sun and he's pretty sure he's being cooked alive. Not only is he wrapped in a fitted slow cooker and sweating his balls off, but he also looks out of place. Amongst the beach goers and girls in their summer clothes and heart-shaped sunglasses, he lurks as an uncomfortably tall beanpole of a boy thanks to a recent growth spurt. He slouches and stuffs his hands in his pockets - which are more like portable ovens than anything else - and tries to blend in with the crowd.
It's not easy. Preteens giggle and point, elderly ask him if he's lost, and a dog trails behind him hoping for snacks or maybe a belly rub, but somehow it's still better than sitting at home and angsting over his piano.
He slides his phone out of his pocket, half to check the time and half to see how hot it is outside (the answer is 3:23 PM and 92 degrees,) before he wonders what he's going to do to pass the time. Admittedly, his grand escape from his parents and Wes' ever frustrating presence hadn't been his most thought-out plan - he has practice scheduled in 7 minutes and no plans to head back home until at least sundown.
And so he walks aimlessly down the boardwalk, head tucked down, not quite sure where he is or where he's going, and rather liking the way the scattered beach sand stains the hem of his pant leg.
The sun is blinding, and his wandering becomes rushing towards what appears like to be an arcade, judging by the sign that sits on top of the building. It looks like it belongs in a Tim Burton movie, what with all of the skulls and jagged edges, but the stares he gets make him want to hide, and what better way to avoid people than to lose himself in a good game of skeeball?
It's a weak theory, but it's better than simmering.
He wonders how long this boardwalk - and arcade, by extension - has been here. He's lived in Death City all his life, but never took the chance to explore this part of town. Soul's seen the beach from his window and longed to meet the ocean, (or anything besides his bedroom walls, really) but never worked up the gall to just walk out before.
His first impression is startling, to say the least.
The arcade is no less crowded than the boardwalk, except it's less adults gallivanting about and more teenagers crowding around the popular machines - skeeball, hoops, shooters, air hockey - like schools of fish, clogging their respective areas but otherwise leaving the way clear for him to shuffle by.
There's a boy playing a shooting game to his left, but instead of letting one of the two blondes with him play, he's got both guns in his hands, pulling the triggers with his pinkies. By all means, the technique should render him near useless, but the guy has game. Mad game, judging by the score count that beeps and blinks as he shoots down another two zombies, narrowly avoiding death from a third.
"There's one on your left," he hears one of the girls say. Soul swivels his attention onto them while he tries to remain nonchalant. She twirls her hair around her finger and leans her hip against the machine, long legs tan and shapely. "You missed him."
"I did not."
"You did."
"So did!" The other girl chirps. There's a bubbly exuberance to her tone that's completely alien to him. "He's gonna getcha, and then you'll be down to your last life!"
"A little faith, girls," the boy sighs. He headshots a zombie with his right hand and shoots a power up with his left.
He wants to linger and watch a little longer, maybe figure out if the boy really did miss a zombie to his left and is in shoot 'em up limbo while his demise festers, but there's a pulsing, throbbing, over-synthesized techno that tears through the arcade like a tidal wave, and it demands attention in a way that Soul can't resist - even if he really, really wants to. His trained ears pick up pulsations and rapid beats, and he knows at once that there's a game of DDR starting.
He might be sheltered but he's not stupid. He's seen tv, and he's been on the internet; a lack of personal experience doesn't mean he's unaware of an arcade game that peaked in the early 2000's.
But still, he's curious, so he wanders over and submerges into the crowd that has assembled by the damn machine. Soul thanks his recent growth spurt for his height and towers over a group of girls, peers over their heads, and watches with a quirked brow as a tiny blonde stomps down on the left arrow of the left pad, eyes bright and bangs slicked back. She turns, pushes her shoulders forward, and he stares blatantly at her ass.
It's not so much a choice as it is basic reflex. She's in tiny booty shorts, and the sight beckons him like a siren's call. He trails his gaze along the interestingly toned curve of her ass and down long, pale legs, and feels more like a creep than he ever has before - is that a Hello Kitty bandaid on her right leg? Fuck.
Horrified at his blatant ogling, he feels very sick and wrong and wills his gaze anywhere but virginal skin and adorable bandages. Her legs are strong, powerful, and he notices the impressive muscle that shapes her calves. She must have a banging cardio routine or something, because damn.
Then again, she's dancing - no shit she does cardio. He might be familiar with the waltz and more rigid forms of the art, but she's not half bad. Her form is loose and she doesn't entirely know what to do with her arms, but the girl has energy that could last for days, and he can read the determination and drive wafting off of her in vibrant waves of passion and whipping pigtails.
She stomps on the arrows with an impressive resolve. She's not classically trained, not by any means, but what she lacks in structure she makes up for in enthusiasm.
"YEAH, PIGTAILS," some kid with blue hair and a disturbing affinity for hair gel screams. "DON'T FORGET TO SHIMMY. WORK THE ITTY BITTY TIDDIES."
She flips the bird behind her and Soul thinks he might be in love.
Her name is Maka.
She introduces herself with an exhausted but bright smile as she grabs her water bottle and guzzles it down. She looks about his age, maybe younger, but it's hard to tell, what with her (adorable, but probably misleading) baby face and the twintails that she wears.
"You're new here," she says conversationally, and it's not a question at all - it's a fact, she knows so, and Soul shuffles and slides his hands deeper into the pits of his pockets. "Did you just move?"
"No."
She raises a brow. "Then why haven't I seen you around here? Or at school? You can't be that old… unless that white hair isn't a lie and you're actually a very nimble old man."
He snarls and flashes her a glint of his teeth. Why does it always comes down to his freakish looks? "Funny."
Maka smiles apologetically and twists the cap back onto her water bottle. He stares at her hands (because he's curious and also a musician, and scoping out good hands is like analyzing the competition. It's habit and he can't help it) and almost laughs at her short nails and nicked fingers; they're the hands of an athlete, not of a dancer or a delicate fairy. She might look tiny and cute, but this girl is rough around the edges, maybe even hardcore.
It's interesting, to say the least.
That hand is now jabbing at him and her eyes are expectant and curious, so he does as he's asked and slides his against hers and shakes. Her grip is firm and her thumb glides along the back of his palm unusually. If he didn't know any better, he might think she's flirting with him.
But she's expressive and open, and her eyes don't betray any amorous intentions.
"Soul," he blurts. "My name is Soul."
"That's a unique name!"
"Huh," he grunts mindlessly, hands back in his pockets and shoulders slouched.
"I like it," she breathes, and there's something in her gaze that thaws him a little. Maybe it's her honest, genuine wonder, or maybe it's the smile she wears that gets to him. She carries herself in such a bright, dignified way, and it's foreign to him; he's only seen that confidence either in the form of bravado (on him) or as sheer snobbery. It's almost unnerving to see it so genuine and vivid, like maybe this girl could carry mountains and probably snap him in half if she put her mind to it.
He shuffles and leans his hip against the Spider Stomp machine. "Thanks."
Her lips part and she goes to say something else, but is swiftly interrupted by an arm hooking around her neck, and then Soul's faced with the same blue haired guy from before. He's chortling and laughing, hair out every which way, and holy shit, the guy is ripped. Soul shrinks back, almost intimidated.
(Okay, absolutely intimidated).
"PIGTAILS," he cackles. "Pigtails. Oh, man. Why didn't you shimmy? I thought we went over why the shimmy was a good idea. You've gotta pull in the people. Give the masses what they want."
Her nose bunches up. Soul wonders if it's from the way he's blatantly objectifying her or the amount of Axe body spray he's wearing.
"My dance doesn't need any embellishments," she huffs, nose high. It's like she's a tiny dog trying to prove her worth without the aid of a tall human reaching the kibble for her. It's adorable, and she plants her hands on her slim hips for added effect.
Her friend(?) snorts. "Well, it wouldn't hurt. Use your goodies for the sake of justice, Maka. It's not like Kid or I have tits to utilize."
"I'd rather you pay attention to how badly I'm kicking ass at the game, Black Star, and not if I'm wearing a bra or not."
"Are you?"
She shrieks and jabs her elbow into his side. He hobbles and howls, holding a hand over his ribs and glaring poutily at her. "It was for science!" he claims, but Soul's pretty sure they both know that it's a lie. "Yo, you with the stoner face! You feel me, right? She's not embracing all that she can bring to the table."
Maka turns to him and stares. He knows whatever he says next will decide if he walks the plank or works his way up the ladder of possible friendship - or at least acquantaincehood.
"... Her body, her choice," he shrugs. "'Sides, she probably should worry more about working her arms into her routine than anything else. Save the tits for a rainy day."
He probably deserves the whack to the head he gets, but Black Star's roaring laughter and the pink dusting Maka's cheeks amidst her fury tells him he has a foot in the door. Or at least a toe or two.
The arcade is a bit of a landmark, apparently, and a favorite hangout of the local high school kids. Both Maka and Black Star are natives, raised in Death City, and spent most of their childhood days at the beach or saving up tickets for the giant stuffed dragon that looms along the rafters of the arcade, rather than practicing piano pieces and again, once more with feeling, like Soul had. It's owned by the father of their friend, 'Kid', who favors the shooters over the more physically taxing DDR machines, and that's why it's been dubbed the official hangout spot of their ragtag group of friends - Maka, Black Star, Kid, and Liz and Patty, who were apparently the two blondes that Soul had seen hanging out.
It's a little funny how only Liz and Patty have normal names and the rest of the group sounds like something out of a children's book or a TV show, but Soul keeps his mouth shut. The potential for human interaction outweighs the temptation.
He's not sure how he ends up becoming adopted into their group of misfits. They're all so different in distinct, quirky ways. Between Black Star's affinity for the gym and bench pressing, Maka's bookish tendencies, and Kid's obsession with aesthetics, he's not sure where Liz's adoration for shopping and music and Patty's apt for art fall into place. It's odd, but it works. They're meshed together, Black Star and Patty's laughter, Maka and Kid's raised brows and short sighs, and Liz's sly grins.
It's easiest for him to connect with Liz, if they're going by mutual interests. Liz has a taste for underground bands and indie music - and she dabbles in jazz, too, which is cool in Soul's book. It's nice to be able to discuss vibes and not have to linger on theory and the technicality. She grins and slides him a CD the third time they hang out, telling him to let her know what he thinks, and he goes home and pops it in his old walkman, letting it move him while he closes his eyes and blocks out Wes.
Black Star is a bro. He tosses him a bag of Doritos and a Twix bar the first time Soul tags along with them for a trip to the drive in, and demands that he sits in the bed of his truck and deals with Patty's feet instead of him, because he's new blood and that's just how things work, bro. It's initiation. He's loud, he talks too much, and he has no sense of volume control or an inside voice, but he also comes with fierce loyalty and a secret handshake; they're an odd duo, but it's easy for him to let loose and get into trouble when there's someone like Black Star calling the shots.
He learns that Kid has a thing for Liz from Patty a week after his initiation. She spews the information late at night, while the two of them wait for their ice cream sundaes (a banana split for Patty and a classic hot fudge sundae for him), and shoot the shit. She says it so quietly, so unlike herself, and smiles lightly as she tells him that she trusts him because Maka and sissy like him, and they're the best judge of character. He doesn't blush, but he may have fidgeted a bit. Patty laughs at him, claps a hand on his shoulder, and tells him to wear more sunscreen.
Maka is something else.
His original assumptions are absolutely correct - Maka Albarn is fierce. She's taking three advanced placement classes next year, and a book out of her stack of summer reading is thicker than everything Soul's read in the last decade combined. She goes on runs with Black Star and partakes in a book club, apparently, and sometimes listens to audiobooks when she does yoga. She's a shoo in for valedictorian and the title of Most Likely To Succeed - she's not his type at all.
He's a little hopeless over her. He stares too much, listens while she babbles and gushes about Shakespeare, and holds her books while she tackles Black Star down to the ground and demands he give her back her lunch money.
It's hard to pinpoint when enjoying Maka's company became enjoying Maka. Sure, there was a base attraction that surprised even him - the number of girls he's dated thus far adds up to a whopping one, a girl named Anya that his parents introduced him to. They'd never gone farther than kissing twice and shaking hands when they amicably broke up.
It might be her smile, so bright and vulnerable that it fills him with a protective pride in the heat of his throat that's so misplaced it hurts. She smiles at kids and lends her quarters to little girls who ask if she can teach them how to dance. She's genuinely kind in a way that could inspire him, he thinks, if maybe he wasn't trapped in his house half of the time, practicing piano and trying to burrow out of Wes' lumbering shadow.
She does inspire him to sneak out as often as he can, though. The thought is comical - the nerd in pigtails inspires big, bad, fucked up him to sneak out of his house to go play skeeball and get ice cream.
It's two weeks into his new life when Wes finally catches on.
He sits in the kitchen, pen tucked behind his ear and thumb tapping against the table when Soul blazes through. He leans back in his seat, palms flat on the table, and watches him grab a muffin before spinning quickly towards the door, ready to scram.
"Heading somewhere?"
Soul tenses. "Uh, yeah, just-"
"Out?" Wes quirks a brow.
It's like he's under a microscope and he hates it. Wes sizes him up and stares at him, brows raised as he twirls the pen between his fingers idly. He's so calm it unnerves him, so he shuffles where he stands and stares at his shoelaces instead of making eye contact.
"Yeah," he grunts. "Out."
"You have practice in an hour."
"I'll be back," he lies. Wes smiles warily. "I will."
"You haven't been to half of your practice sessions this week. Your tutor's starting to get suspicious. Mom and Dad will be upset."
He grits his teeth and clenches his hand around his muffin. Crumbs tumble and fall, dribbling onto the otherwise impeccable tile. The maids won't be happy with him.
"You think?"
Wes scoots his chair back. Soul resists the urge to turn and beat feet out of the house, maybe grab some of his shit and camp out at Black Star's place. Would that be suspicious? Probably. Maybe if he dropped some bro names, Star wouldn't ask too many questions. Maybe say he's all torn up over a girl.
He stays put. Wes approaches. He slouches back.
Wes sighs. "Are you having fun, wherever it is you're running off to? Have you made some friends?"
He thinks of Liz and the CDs they've been passing back and forth. He thinks of Kid's quiet companionship. He thinks of Maka's tight grip and the way she laughs so hard she cries.
"Yeah," he says.
Wes buries his hand in the disheveled tuft of Soul's hair and messes with it, laughing softly. Soul squawks and swats him away, snarling, and Wes crooks an uneven smile, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Go. I'll cover for you."
"... Seriously?"
"You've been a shut in for years, and only half of that is self induced. What kind of big brother would I be if I doomed you to your castle, princess?"
"Eat a dick, Wes."
He laughs. "Just get lost, Soul."