this is something i wrote to go with my friend ash's art - it can be found on her art tumblr, ashsocolourful. it was a pleasure to work with anyone as talented and witty as her. :)
The tooth burns a hole into his chest.
He pants, sweat stained hair plastering to his forehead and chest heaving as the ceiling fan wobbles with life. Daylight creeps in through the cracks of his musty curtains and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
Nightmares dance behind his fluttering eyelids, visions of razor blades and salt water and red that have him turning in his bed, nearly strangling himself with sprawling sheets. The tooth digs into his collarbone and leaves an indent in his skin, marring him for a second time.
He goes to clench the curtains in his fist and comes up short.
There's nothing there anymore.
"What do you say we take a trip to the beach today?" Wes asks as he draws the curtains. He speaks with a deliberate, conscientious tone that pisses Soul off, and he grunts and rolls to trap his right arm under him.
He can smell the salt in the air already. His blood burns and he can think of nothing but the tooth clenched in his fist.
"Not feeling it," he grunts.
"Soul."
He's giving him that look again. The pity is stifling and he wants it to stop, wants Wes to go away and take his compassion and charity with him. He wants to kick and scream and cry but settles for pressing his face into the pillows and hoping the world will stop turning, just for a little bit.
"Wes, really. No."
"I have BLTs. We can stop by the music shop on the way back." He doesn't budge, not even for a moment, and hears the floorboards creak as Wes approaches. His voice breaks. "Please, Soul?"
And he thinks he hates Wes a little bit for having so much pull. It's only Wes who could guilt him from his bed, only Wes who could actively make him feel bad about the resonating misery in his bones. He buries the shark tooth in his swim trunks, zips it away safe and struggles through tugging his shirt over his head – and he hates Wes a little more for knowing just when to shuffle in and offer a helping hand.
"Bro!"
He's too busy staring at the moving truck to see Black*Star coming. His only warning is a battle cry and a chant of terrible bro puns, and before he can brace himself, his best friend is yanking him into a headlock and giving him a noogie.
"Let me go!" He grunts, and Black*Star laughs like he's fourteen and careless. Soul manages to shove his way free and squint at the moving truck and the redhead that ducks his way around the yard to chat up what Soul presumes is his new neighbor. Gross.
Black*Star claps him on his back and goes to brofist him. Soul stares and watches the bravado fade from his face, watches the horror soak his features. It leaves a metallic taste in his mouth, a lot like blood.
His teeth are so goddamn sharp. He stops biting his tongue and frowns instead.
"… Right," his best friend mutters, and holds out his other arm instead. Soul meets his fist halfway and they knock knuckles. "Lucky righty."
"Neat board."
There's a tiny girl with gemstone eyes peering at him so intently that he's sure she can see right through him. He wonders if she can see the madness that crawls beneath his skin, because there's sand between his toes and the sea breeze brings him back to summers past, summers before the accident. She's not a local, she's new.
She's a clean slate. She knows nothing – to her, he's just a boy with dark eyes and a scar down his middle. To her, he's just another beach goer, another face.
"It's painted like a piano," she notes. "That's cool. I like it."
The temptation is too strong. "Neat?"
Her face explodes into heat. She burns with a blush, like maybe the sun has scarred her fragile, pale skin. Maybe it has; he can see her slim shoulders are pink and dusted with flurries of pale freckles.
"You're welcome!" She huffs, bristling adorably. The more he stares, the more he notices her freckles and the way they stipple over her nose and eyelids. She's really quite cute, too cute to be talking to him, and he blatantly ignores the way Wes double takes and flashes a thumbs up before trotting away.
"I've never heard anyone use 'neat' over the age of thirteen"," he shrugs. "Except maybe Disney Channel stars that don't have a say in the matter, or else they'd ditch the three layers of mismatched clothes they're forced into and stop producing shitty music."
"Harsh." But she's smiling. She has the kind of smile that could cure cancer, bright with full cheeks and white, straight teeth. "Is that what you say to all the nice girls that compliment you?"
"Yes," he deadpans, without missing a beat.
She doesn't need to know that she's the first girl not to stare and ask too many questions. His limbs burn and he wants to reach out and shake her hand, but he's grasping his board and there's not much else he can do. His shoulders slouch and he digs his toes into the sand.
Her name is Maka, and Wes spends the entire car ride home interrogating him about her. What's her name? How old is she? Is she from around here? He has no answers, only a fluttering in his chest and phone number sharpied to his wrist.
He dreams of drowning.
He's only whole when he's in the water, paddling out and riding the wave to fruition. There's a freedom in surfing that he misses; it's like being on top of the world, the only independence he's ever been allowed.
Because there are certain things that're expected of an Evans. He's a musician by blood and a surfer by choice, and his piano won't play itself. His piano might never see the light of day again, not from a boy with one arm and resentment in his blood. He never wanted to play the damn thing anyway, never wanted to be his parent's puppet, and now he'll never have the chance to live up to their expectations.
He lays in his bed screaming. He's just sharkbait.
Maka sits in the sand with a book in her lap and her hair tied up in pigtails. He checks both ways to make sure that Wes has made himself scarce before approaching her, hand jabbed into his trunks pocket and shoulders hunched.
"Want to play a game?" She asks, and he can't find a reason to deny her. She pats the ground beside her and he drops down, long limbs clattering against her knobby, skinny knees.
A thin finger traces two vertical lines into the sand, then two horizontal; a tic tac toe board.
"Rock paper scissors to see who goes first?"
He does not get lost in her eyes. That's corny and cliche, and he's not that much of a fucking loser, especially over a girl who texts him pictures of cute puppies at 3 AM and wears her hair in twintails. But he just might, if she always tells him stories over the phone when he can't sleep, when the night terrors are too much.
Maybe that's why he can't take his eyes off of her. Maybe that's why she keeps smiling at him gently, softly, like it's a look reserved for him and only him. It's warmer than Wes' pity or Black*Star's denial, and it heats his stomach like a slow cooker and makes his head spin. He can't stop smiling at her either. It's contagious, she's infectious, and he doesn't want to be cured. Not yet.
"Ladies first," he tips his head.
She laughs and brushes the hair from his eyes. "What a gentleman."
"I wanna know how to strategize."
If she's offended, she doesn't show it. It's clear to him that she's an only child, because she draws an 'x' in the right hand corner of the board and grins like she actually has a chance. She's fucking toast.
He wobbles an 'o' right smack dab in the middle. She giggles, and he chances a glance up at her. She reaches down and steadies his strokes with her own finger, evens out his circle and flicks his wrist gently.
"You draw like a child," she teases and bumps his shoulder. He doesn't push back, doesn't even lean away as she nudges his stump.
His adam's apple bobs. "I used to be left handed."
Her eyes have never been so wide. She gasps aloud and jumps up, pale legs dusted with sand and hand pressed over her mouth and oh god, she thinks she's offended him. Choking out his name, she shakes her head and follows it with a mantra of "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, oh my god," and he squints up at her as the sand crumbles off her legs and dusts over his eyes.
"Don't," he rumbles, because he can't take the pity from her, too. "It's fine. Kinda used to it. Only have one arm, Maka."
There's an awkward pause as his right arm slowly rises to scratch the back of his neck. It was something that was normally done with his missing limb, his dominant hand, and he only flinches a little bit when he misses and drags his nails over the burnt skin of his back.
"…" She leans over and grazes her fingertips over the pinked skin. "I have some aloe?"
"Yeah, uh – would you mind?"
She drags her fingers up his neck and over the ridge of his nose. "You're burnt all over," she murmurs, and he doesn't have it in him to admit that it's not just sun exposure that has him red all over. Her skin is sinfully good and soft against his peeling shoulders and cracked lips, and the aloe that she slathers over him is cool and soothing.
"You know," he says, eyes closed and brows lax. "I was going to kick your ass at tic tac toe anyway. Even without you throwing the game."
He swears he feels her lips press against the back of his shoulder. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Balancing is no simple task. His knees lock and he tumbles from his board, like he's a fucking rookie who has done nothing but eat it and let the waves do all the talking. He's too cautious, he thinks with a growl as he slaps a wet hand onto the deck of his board and begins the hazardous task of climbing back up.
He tastes salt and the sand is gritty between his teeth. He spits noisily and ignores Black*Star's laughter, the dick.
"I could hold your hand," he offers. "No homo."
Soul would rather die. He gets back on the metaphoric horse and tries again, again, again, until the ocean stings his eyes and he's too exhausted to paddle back ashore. Swimming one handed is a lot harder than he would've ever anticipated.
Black*Star mutters apologies and regrets to him, and Soul hates the way it feels going down.
"Do you trust me?"
More than anything else, he thinks, but keeps his mouth shut and watches her bite her lip.
"That's a loaded question," he says instead. He loves the way the corners of her mouth twitch and the way her eyes light up when he says the wrong thing and gets her going. She's so easy to rile up, so vibrant in what she feels.
"Soul," she breathes. "Close your eyes."
Her voice is soft but 's a lot like her, and he can't fight the giddy smile as she slides her hand over his and squeezes gently. Her hands are always warm, he finds, just like her; she radiates heat, like she's the sun and he's a mangled seashell, bruised and battered by the waves and tear of the ocean.
She pries his hand open gently, fingers pressing into his palm with the lightest touch. He feels her tuck something into the pit of his hand before she curls his fingers back down into a fist.
"Okay," she mumbles, and whoa, her face is way closer than he thought. Her breath bursts against the crook of his neck as she murmurs in his ear and the intimacy of it nearly destroys him. "You can peek."
She's right there, so close, and her lashes are long and blonde and patter over the swell of her cheeks. She breathes in, quirks a smile nervously and for the first time, he wants to kiss her. And not because of the gift that burns the palm of his hand and makes his stomach do cartwheels, but the way she smiles at him and the way the setting sun draws meager shadows over her eyes. She glows, like something out of a fantasy, sunburnt cheeks and pink lips and all.
He realizes he's staring at her and not peeking at his gift and wow, that's probably sending the wrong message (or is it the right one?) and he quickly fixes the problem. His fingers wiggle and he cracks his fist; there's a braided, woven cord nestled against his palm, rounded and handmade. He flickers a glance at her and she presses her lips together. "For the tooth," she clarifies, tucking hair behind her shoulder as she leans and guides it out of his hands. She presses it to his collarbone and hums her approval. "You won't be able to lose it as easily if you're wearing it, right? And it's kind of a trophy that way, proof that you came out on top. It didn't bury you."
He really, really wants to kiss her.
And it's funny, because part of him has never blamed the shark. He's always blamed himself for being too careless, for going out at the asscrack of dawn alone and paddling out without Black*Star. It's his own reckless abandon that finally locked the fallboard of his piano.
"It's in my pocket," he admits. What else is there to say? He can't articulate how much appreciation and admiration he harbors for her. He's never been good at words or talking about feelings; he's a bit emotionally stunted in that way, conversationally constipated.
But actions speak louder, and he wants more than anything else to let her know that she's special. There's a home for him in her eyes that he's afraid to allow himself to fall into, and yet it's everything he wants. He craves her stability in the same way he craves her laughter, her ache, her sleepy face at 4 AM tucked into the crook of his elbow.
He traces the hollow of her cheek with a quivering thumb, hands shaking with his resolve; her eyes steel, molten green and so sure of what she wants, and when he drags his thumb over her lips and asks if it's alright if he kisses her, she's already closing the distance and cupping his jaw. It doesn't matter that their teeth clatter and they bump noses; she's real and sturdy against him and she swallows his conflict with hushed breath and the sound of his name.
He braces himself on the porcelain bowl of the sink.
"Tilt your head to the right," Wes instructs, and Soul does so, rolling his neck and wishing he could brace his chin. His brother guides the razor along the side of his head. The buzzing is soothing, white noise that he can lose himself in if he closes his eyes and really focuses on it. It's better than the fluorescent lighting and his reflection.
"Maka's nice."
He grunts. Nice doesn't even begin to cover it, but he's not about to admit it out loud. Not to Wes, anyway. Not if he hasn't put it in words yet even for her, who deserves it more than anyone else.
"Really nice," Wes continues. "Are you two getting serious?"
"None of your business, Mom."
"I wouldn't sass me when I have a razor in my hand and your neck in slicing distance, young man."
Soul snorts. "Dare you."
He won't. Wes clicks his tongue and moves his hand from keeping Soul's head steady to ruffle his hair. He yelps, trying to wriggle away without catching his chin on the blade, grunting "cut the shit Wes!" and wheezing when he's jabbed in the ribs with a lanky finger.
Wes towers over him and grins, looking less like his stressed caretaker and more like the playful twenty-something he ought to be. "When am I getting nieces and nephews, Soul?" He jeers, laughing as Soul squawks clumsily and stumbles, grasping the sink with white knuckles. "I'm not getting any younger. I see that necklace on you!"
The tooth drums against his chest, galloping and tumbling as he whirls around to face the door instead. "I don't need this. I'm a grown ass man–" He's really not over middle school, clearly, judging by the way his face burns and his pulse races, but he's gotta make a stand sometime.
His brother giggles (giggles!) and tugs him into a bear hug. Wes actually lifts him off his feet from behind and Soul curses out loud, voice cracking, and Wes laughs harder. "My little brother's all grown up! When's the wedding? Did she propose with the necklace?"
"She didn't– I'M CALLING MY LAWYER."
The laugher shakes him from deep in his belly and he throws his head back as Maka tumbles from the board. Her skinny arms wave and spread like wings as she tears into the water, legs akimbo. Her gasp of surprise is gargled, swallowed whole by the water and the way her legs kick furiously. He holds a hand over his eyes to guard off her splashing and the narrowed eyed, haughty look she gives him as she surfaces.
"You're not supposed to laugh at my misfortune, you know," she pouts. "I could subtract kisses."
He offers his hand to her. She takes it, steadying herself against him as she wriggles her slim body back onto the board and settles on it, sitting to face him. "But you won't," he mumbles, pushing her soaked hair from her face; her skin is warm but the water that drips down her is cold and pools around her just enough to tickle his knees.
Both hands are planted against the surfboard as she leans forward to nip his lip. "You're so lucky you're cute."
"Cute enough to share some ice cream with?" He presses his forehead against hers and breathes her in. "I might have a tub of mint chip in the freezer at home."
"And fudge?"
"I think I could arrange that."
"Be still, my beating heart," she sighs, before tilting her head and pressing a trail of kisses down his cheek. There's a dreamy expression on her face, serene even with her hair soaked with saltwater and her freckles darker than he's ever seen them. His hand slides up her side and clutches at her waist, where her skin is bare and sleek and damp; she murmurs into his neck and sighs contently, nibbling softly at his throat.
He groans and clenches her waist, tugging and pulling. Shuffling closer, she shakily slides her hands onto his thighs to brace herself before trailing them up his chest. His heart flutters beneath her touch.
"I can feel your heartbeat," she marvels quietly. "It's like you're a hummingbird."
"It kind of hurts," he jokes, exhaling as she smoothes her hands over his jaw and pulls him down to kiss her. She tastes like the ocean and egg salad, the quintessential beach day and he laughs against her mouth. The laughter stops when he feels her tongue slide along the crease of his lips, just about stops breathing altogether as she pulls him closer and practically slides herself on top of him.
His heart isn't the only thing that hurts. He's never been quite so hot and bothered in his life, and with her legs linking over his, there's no way she can't tell. She moans breathily and it solves none of his problems, and when she shifts an arm back to lead his hand up her front and over the swell of her beast he gasps and squirms.
He trembles and shakes, hand timid, and she presses her own over his to firm his grasp over her. "It's okay," she reassures, and he can't help the way he quivers. It's him she's balancing on, and he can focus on nothing but the soft flesh beneath his hand, and really, it shouldn't be a surprise at all that they slip and tumble into the water.
Maka splashes him and squeals when he spits water right in her face. "Ew, Soul! Gross!"
"I never thought having sex would be so damn difficult," he pouts as Maka snatches the condom from him and tears the package open. "I could've done that myself. I have teeth."
"You'd be spitting the wrapper on me," Maka shushes, leaning over to kiss his nose gently and then flick him. "And that's how you tear a condom, Soul."
There's no way to argue his point without sounding like a child, so he bites his lip and trails his hand down the length of her back. Her hair frizzes at the tip, stained with salt water and too much fresh air but she's never been more beautiful. It's a wild look for her, all beach hair and speckled nose and pink shoulders, one that he's deliriously attracted to. Her body is much nicer than his, he thinks, as he trails his fingers up and down her side and traces the contours of her trim stomach. She's thin and lithe, with strong arms and long legs and high breasts that he tries not to stare at too blatantly.
She catches his eye and budges her hips. Her heat practically glows against his thigh and he garbles out a groan of her name. He's never stood a chance, not really.
Maka slides the condom over his shaft with surprising finesse; part of him wants to ask where she's learned such a feat but also knows that it's none of his damn business, so he tips his head back into his pillows and hisses at the sensation. It's cold and tight and weird, but he can't say he hates it if it means finally being with her.
"Hey Soul?"
The way she looks at him makes him feel more naked than his lack of clothes does. His hand tightens around her waist.
She leans over and kisses him softly, hair tickling his shoulder as it falls and hangs around them like a flaxen curtain. Hands grip his shoulders and cup his jaw, follow and trace his shape as she lifts her hips; she has to excuse a hand to lead his shaft beneath her before she eases her way down. He lays, mouth open and groaning dumbly as she bites his lip and sinks down, blinding him with heat and heedless waves of glee and rightness.
"You're so handsome," she mutters against his mouth and he feels his heart throb in his chest. It's the loudest sound, her hushed words into his skin, and she doesn't stop even for a moment. "I love you so much. I love you."
For a moment, he worries that he's hurt her with the way his fingers dig into her so tightly, but she moans out what he thinks was supposed to be his name and shifts her hips up.
He watches in unbridled wonder as she tosses her head back and feels him, loses herself to him. Watching Maka surrender herself to another person is a treat, but for it to be him is something more entirely; it's like he's lost in a daydream, one littered with passion and the way her eyes look when she sinks down upon him.
She breaks like a promise, thighs trembling beneath his palm as she comes and he's not even a little bit ashamed to lose himself to the sight of her.
The wind tears through his hair and shoots bugs into his teeth and it's everything he missed.
His balance only wobbles for a moment before he cuts through the wave and finds himself again. The ride is soothing and exhilarating, because it's freedom and nostalgic all at once. It's proof that he hasn't been buried, that he's still alive and breathing and Soul. He's unstoppable. He's on top of the world, back in the saddle.
He hears Black*Star's screams and cheers and Maka's excited clapping, and it's only when he chances a glance over to his ragtag cheer squad that he realizes the entire beach has stopped to watch him. Wes beams so furiously that Soul's sure his cheeks must be sore, and Maka stands on his side and tugs his sleeve excitedly as she bounces on her feet like an excited chihuahua.
The tooth around his neck burns a very different heat into the pit of his chest, one that's warm and proud and makes his blood burn. That shark might be a demon in his dreams, but it's nothing spectacular in his reality.
He lays in the sand hours later, blonde hair between his fingers, and counts the stars.