types of kisses
( 14 )
Mom kisses his forehead and cries messily when she picks him up at the police station.
The smothering is foreign. It's what he expects from Wes, maybe, but not from his mother, who's done such a bang-up job of nudging him toward the spotlight and other assorted things that make his anxiety spike and his general well-being plummet. He wonders what the occasion is for such dramatic affection - because surely this isn't the same woman who had pushed him to perform with his dazzlingly talented brother, and who - more often than not - glances over him to help said dazzlingly talented brother make sure his piece is in the right key and oh, your hair looks just perfect, break a leg, Wes, darling!
He tries to squirm his way out of her embrace. Her perfume is suffocating and shoots down his throat like an unwelcome guest and he needs out. The police officer who's effectively been playing babysitter gasps and coos, as if it's actually adorable that his face is being buried in his mother's expensive cleavage, and Soul regrets not running faster when that dog started barking.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again!" she gushes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Mascara stains the tracks of water and turns her undereye area a smudgy gray.
Soul counts to three in his head. Do not snarl. Do not make it worse. But most of all, do not cry - frustration be damned, he's a teenager now, a cool teen, and cool teens don't cry - they are in charge of their own life.
His mother kisses his forehead again and he feels that much more powerless. He's not in charge at all. He's never been.
"Sorry," he grumbles insincerely.
Part of him wants to make a grab for his backpack, resting so close on the plastic seat right behind him, and make another run for it, but he's vastly outnumbered and he still hasn't hit his growth spurt yet. Between all the cops and the vice his mother has him tangled in, he's not going anywhere. He's trapped. Again.
She pushes back his bangs and kisses his forehead again, twice, three times, surely dotting his (now) damp skin with splotches of red lipstick. "If you're unhappy, we can talk about it," she says, trying to be soothing, anyway, but it only inspires Soul to clench his fists tighter and grit his teeth. "I don't know where you got the idea that we don't want you home, but-"
Soul forces his breath through his nose and she flinches, sniffles. Before long, her lips are on his forehead again and they rest there. Her hand trembles on his cheek, holding him still, and she sniffles, quivering, and Soul can just about feel the moment his mother's heart breaks.
Once the problem child, always the problem child, he thinks darkly, and wonders just when he'll manage to get something right.
.
His father, thankfully, does not kiss him upon his return.
Wes, however, does.
He plops two loving, brotherly smooches on each of his cheeks and Soul reacts immediately, scrubbing the affection off with a firm palm and a passionate scowl. While his dad does an A+ job of being generally uncomfortable and scoots around his wayward son without so much as a greeting, Wes takes both of Soul's cheeks into his hands and holds his face still. He doesn't cry like their mom, but there's still a twinge of guilt lurking in those warm brown eyes that has Soul wondering if his brother feels more than he lets on.
It wouldn't surprise him. He lives in a house of appearances and status, fine china and leather upholstery. One does not wear the Evans name without knowing a thing or two about maintaining a reputation, and they're a clan of closet thespians. Soul knows he's been an actor practically since birth, despite never once stepping onto stage with memorized lines buzzing from his lips. An Evans is suave and collected, cool and put together, and Wes is nothing if not a prodigy.
"Gross, Wes," Soul finds himself mumbling.
His brother pinches his cheek and exhales. Some of that guilt melts and gives way to the burning kindness that makes Soul want to turn around and run all over again. He doesn't, though; he sits and holds his tongue like a good Evans while Wes shakes his head and says, "You had us worried sick. You should've seen Dad's face when he realized you weren't still hiding in your room."
"Dad didn't have a problem with me being gone when he was ripping my sheet music in half."
Wes purses his lips. "He's just old fashioned, Soul. He doesn't get your music."
"Yeah, well," Soul says, shifting his weight to his other foot. His bag is heavy on his back and his shoulders ache, but there's an invisible weight yanking his body down, always down, and he can't find it in him to straighten up even if he wanted to. "Doesn't have to now. It's gone."
"Soul…"
"It's whatever," he lies swiftly. Anything to get Wes off of his back, anything to get him out of the center of attention and back behind his closed door. "Can I go to my room now?"
His brother raises an eyebrow. "Did you really think you could attempt to run away from home without anyone talking to you about it?"
"Was kind of hoping no one would notice I was gone." He'd been sort of banking on it, too. More often than not, Soul is left to his own devices in the afternoon hours, as long as he makes it to dinner on time and puts on a clean pair of pants before stepping foot in his mother's (read: the housekeeper's) clean kitchen.
Wes shakes his head. "C'mon, little bro. Of course someone would notice. You live here. You're part of the family. We love you."
"Please don't get mushy on me."
Before long, his hair is ruffled and Wes is smiling that sad smile again, brown eyes warm with nauseating affection, and Soul thinks he might hate him, just a bit, for getting him to feel like he might belong, even just for a moment. Instead, he thinks about the torn sheet music, the fight over lunch, his father's raised voice - proclamations that his music is evil, is dark and chaotic and isn't befitting of someone in this family - and his resolution hardens again. He doesn't belong. And he'll never belong, not if that's what's lurking in the pits of his soul, chiming like the messy clattering of church bells, no matter what Wes says.
His face feels hot. Anger is always easier than sadness.
Soul pushes his way past him, hand clutching the straps of his bag. "I'm going to my room."
"Soul!" Wes cries after him. "Hey, wait a minute!"
"Don't want to talk. 'M tired."
His voice is incredulous. "Can't you sleep later?"
He sort of feels like laughing. Ah, but that's not really how these things work - not that Wes would ever know, perfect Wes, with the room full of trophies and awards and the confidence to back his skills. Soul snorts and feels himself cave in just that little bit more. "No."
Wes lingers behind him, a mere three steps behind him as Soul swings open the front door, and asks, "Why?" just as Soul's shrugging off the concerned glances of one of the housekeepers.
There are so many eyes on him at once. Stage fright prickles at his chest before burning bright in his stomach, his throat, and Soul swallows thickly, unable to deal with everything at once. He can still hear the subtle sniffling of his mother, the awkward, unsure mumbling of his normally quite stoic father, and he makes the mistake of turning to look at Wes again, who stares at him much like one might a kicked puppy. He pities him. He worries about him.
"Soul," Wes tries again. "You know they're going to tighten the reigns now. If you'd just talk to me-"
"About what, Wes?" Soul snaps. His eyes feel hot and he refuses to cry, he will not cry, because he's not a kid anymore and it's about time he acts like it. "I tried to run away from home. I don't want to be here."
"Soul," he says softly, practically withering. There's a chip in his armor, a moment of weakness in his otherwise spotless bravado. "They love you. Mom's crying."
But she never cried when he did, or when he clearly expressed his discomfort and dissatisfaction with years of piano lessons - didn't even budge when her husband ripped up her own son's hard work in a flurry of emotion. If this is how his parents show their love, Soul thinks he's quite fine without it. As a matter of fact, he'd rather not have it at all.
Soul drops his gaze and fixes it on his feet. "They sure have a funny way of showing it."
"They just don't understand. Your music is different, but it's not bad. It's special."
"Different," Soul laughs humorlessly. It's like a bark, and he can see Wes' hands flexing before he tucks them neatly into the pockets of his slacks. "Is that what they're calling me now?"
When he says nothing more, Soul thinks he's won, but it doesn't feel at all like victory. Wes leans over and kisses the crown of his head and Soul steels himself, determined to find a way out, determined to overcome the billowing, bleak cloud ahead and escape the tomb that awaits him upstairs.
.
His first impression of his guardian angel is she's tiny.
Everything about her is tiny, from her slim shoulders to her skinny waist to her - he averts his eyes promptly from her chest and tries to play it off like he hadn't just been considering the size of her quite-small-but-still-kind-of-perky-and-interesting tits. She's dressed in all white, a floaty little dress that hugs her skinny curves, with her light hair tied up in twin, neat pigtails. The most startling thing about her, though, is her eyes - wide, bright green eyes, framed by soft, blonde lashes that gleam with an almost otherworldly light. They're trained on him like a hawk, like he's the only one in the room, as if his overzealous, obnoxious brother isn't standing only two feet away from him, grinning like a fool.
Soul turns from her and glares at Wes. "What the fuck?!"
"I told you!" he says, still beaming with pride. "I got you an angel!"
"That is not an angel," Soul blurts, jabbing a finger in her direction. "That is a thirteen year old girl in a short dress, and I'm not interested!"
Said thirteen year old girl in a short dress bristles like a cat, even going as far as hissing, "Hey!"
"She's your angel, Soul," Wes insists. "All I had to do was a little research and then she was here. Maka's been looking after you for a long time, and even she knew that you needed a little extra help these days. Don't be rude, introduce yourself! You have a guest!"
A guest in all white sitting on his ugly, pretentious floral bedding. He gets a better look at her. His previous observation still remains true - she's small, with a cute button nose, but the pale legs that peek out of her light skirt go on for days. And when she catches him staring - observing! - she tilts her head and snaps her fingers. Soul jerks alert and practically hears the smugness in Wes' expression.
"If she's my angel, why do I have to introduce myself to her?" he spits. "And where are her wings?"
"I'm right here, you know," she finally pipes up. Her voice is soothing, like muffled windchimes. "You could just ask me?"
"Fine," he says, pouting. "Who the fuck are you and how much did my brother pay you to play along?"
Her brows furrow and she says, "He didn't?"
"Come on. And get off my bed!"
She stands up, and fuckitall, she's taller than him. Just a little bit, but it's enough to inspire him to drag his slouch lower, as if to better mask the fact that she's actually a few inches taller than he is at his full height. Her posture is impeccable, shoulders back, hands linked behind her daintily. This girl - Maka, whatever her name is - is a piano instructor's wet dream.
"Okay," she begins. Her brows are still furrowed when she continues, asking, "Is this better?" before taking a step toward him.
"No. Who are you?"
"Maka," she answers without missing a beat. "Your guardian angel."
"No, seriously."
She smiles like sunshine and says, "Your name is Sullivan Muriel Evans and you turned fourteen a week ago. You like to let your cereal get soggy before you eat it and you hate waking up before noon. You're afraid of the dark but too proud to say so, so you sleep with the television on mute. You can burp the alphabet. You have an outie-"
Those wind chimes are suddenly a lot less soothing. There's no way she could know all of that about him unless she had been observing him - which is creepy in itself, because how often does she watch him? - and while it does a great job of making him feel a hell of a lot less alone, he's not sure it's really in a good way. He hisses and cuts her off with a wave of his arms, trying valiantly to ignore Wes as he gasps in glee and Maka as she continues to stare at him, as if she can see into his very soul.
"Okay!" he blurts. "Okay, fine, I believe you - just quit it with the Sullivan thing, would you? It's-"
"Soul," she says back. "I know."
Creepy.
The closer she gets, the more he believes the whole not of this world thing; she might not have any wings, but she brings with her a breath of fresh air, a subtle glow of white light - and green eyes so damn bright they might as well be headlights. She flickers a glance down at his chest as if she's reading something before smiling carefully back at him, as if there's nothing absurd about the conversation.
But he still has questions. So many questions. And for once, he's not afraid to speak up.
"Where the fuck did you find an actual angel?" He splutters, spinning to face Wes. "How do you just find an ANGEL?! Did you use google? I know you're not religious-"
Maka hums thoughtfully. "Humans do have such odd faiths."
"I wasn't looking for an angel," Wes admits, smiling sheepishly. He takes another glance at Maka, who's steadily creeping her way into the circle of conversation, and offers her a polite nod. "I just wanted to help you, and I was going to call about getting you an appointment with a therapist when I stumbled upon her."
Something rumbles within him. "A therapist?! Wes, you know I hate talking to people!"
His brother stares, unblinking. "I thought keeping my baby brother safe was more important than that, actually."
That rumbling something inflates in his chest and makes him feel like a right bastard. The guilt is thick, and he feels selfish - and then it pops with a pinprick of anger and Soul grumbles, fists jammed into his pockets moodily. Wes hefts a sigh and angel girl (Maka, he reminds himself) tugs on Soul's sleeve.
He just about jumps a mile. The only thing worse than talking to strangers is being touched by one. "Hey-!"
"I came of my own accord. It was just a coincidence that your brother found me before I found you. I'm not used to walking the ground yet. Your world is… darker."
Soul forces a breath through his nose. "How did you even get here if no one summoned you?"
"Oh, but you did!" She bounces on the balls of her feet. "You wished for help, and here I am!"
"I didn't-" he croaks, stuttering. Had he? He'd certainly been unhappy the night before, had considered less favorable ways of getting out… He sulks beneath Wes' watchful stare, feeling very much like a bug on a windshield, smashed open for the world to see. His guts are not attractive, not a piece of abstract art, and he's never really been good at suffering prettily. Once an eyesore, always an eyesore.
Instead of owning up to the reality of it, he flusters and scowls, muttering, "I doubt blasting MCR at midnight really counts as a divine cry for help."
She frowns. "That's not what-"
"Where are your wings? I thought guardian angels always just sort of helped and supported from above."
His so-called angel blushes. Before he has time to really think on it, she's babbling, "I haven't earned them yet," and tacking on a quick, "I can't stay here long unless we officially bond," all the while glowing a darling pink. If Soul weren't still so freaked out by the whole thing, he might find it cute, but she's not human, he's fucked up, and attraction is still a weird thing for him. Even so, he can't deny that she's a pretty little thing, even if she probably hasn't hit angel puberty yet and still wears her hair in twintails.
He blinks blankly at her. "Bond?"
Those headlights of hers are focused on him again and he's nothing more than a deer. "Will you accept my help?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Wes clears his throat. "If I may make a suggestion-"
"-He has to do it himself!" Maka cuts in. "Let Soul talk."
The appreciation is overwhelming. He's never heard anyone talk to Wes like that - especially not for his sake - and it's probably because she's blindsided him with compassion that he allows himself to submit to all of this weirdness.
"Okay," he says. "Bond with me."
"Okay?"
He nods. She brightens, then pinks further, then moves, and his first kiss isn't anything like he thought it might be. It's awkward, because he's barely met the girl and she's taller than he is, but there's also warmth, a tickle in his throat, and virgin soft lips pressed to his, tender and careful. She doesn't push or prod, just holds his jaw for a moment before she's pulling away, giggling anxiously, telling him that they're bonded, whatever that means, and she'll be staying with him for a while.
"Until you feel comfortable on your own," she chirps, still giddy off of god only knows what. "Just think of me as your companion!"
Wes' excited gasping can wait. Soul squints at her, half tempted to press his fingers to his lips, unsure if the warmth budding in his chest is the work of angels or something else. He chooses to focus on the freckles stippling along her nose instead.
Fourteen's definitely going to be a wild ride.