He keeps waiting to wake up, and it keeps not happening.
But really, really, he must be dreaming.
Maka-the strange girl he had found only this morning slumped helplessly against his building-is currently pacing the roof in his cast off clothes, looking to each side, seeming to take stock-of what, he can't guess.
Maybe Blake slipped something into his drink again-"to help uncork your sphincter, brolo, you are wound waaaay too tight. No need to thank me, dude. Your friendly neighborhood broctologist is happy to help pull the stick out of your ass anytime." Punching his so called best friend had been completely warranted even if the intervention by drugging had happened in the confines of Tsubaki's apartment and he'd been watched by friends the whole time-blacking out, loss of control, these are things he fears beyond measure, and he'd made that clear after it happened. He doubts even Star would repeat such a drastic mistake twice, but how else can he explain this-this?
The fact he's taken her in at all. The fact she seems to be trapped in some geekcon delusion. The fact everything is new to her, or at least, she pretends it is. The fact she'd been wearing a clearly expensive costume and wants to retrieve a sword-a sword of all things. It's insanity.
Soul really should just call the cops, explain the situation, and let them haul her off to whatever asylum she's escaped, from but there's something about her that stays his hand, holds his tongue. Maybe it's the fire in her green eyes, the clear conviction, the sheer determination. Then again, maybe it's that he's still pretty sure he must be dreaming even if, in spite of the oddity, this dream feels more real than any he's ever had, and so, what harm can there be in letting his weird little brain child play out to fruition?
When she stops next to him, it pulls him from his thoughts.
"Alright, I'm going to get my things back. You have my gratitude again for the hospitality, and I do hope you won't mind me coming back for my gown and to return the garments you've lent me when I'm able."
"I, uh, sure." Soul scratches the back of his neck, the intensity of her gaze more than a little unnerving. "I hope you find it," he adds, though he has little conviction she will. Then again, dreams are strange.
"Of course I will, but I do appreciate the support." Her smile is so sharp it nearly makes him shudder and he instantly realizes, not for the first time, that this is a woman to be crossed at his own peril. "Well, then." She looks away, looks out to the city, and steps to the edge of the roof. Her face is red before she turns away and he can't fathom why-but then, as she reaches the ledge, it happens.
Right there, on the top of his building, with no reason or provocation, Maka begins to sing.
He blinks. She's-really singing, and it's good, and there's even phantom music playing-when had she hidden a speaker?
Whatever. Dream, remember? Of course she's singing. Of course.
And the song!
It almost sounds like the tune of an old Wham! song he loathes, and yet, also, it's so clearly not.
"Rats and bugs," she sings, voice clear.
Then, "Birds and slugs."
Followed by, "Need to catch a thug."
And after, "So let's jitterbug!"
Finally, she breaks into full blown verse and he cannot look away as things begin to happen.
It's the pigeons who first start flocking around her in an ordered pattern. Then rats start appearing at her feet, and all manner of bugs, especially roaches, as flies buzz merrily in the air. Soul bites down on his lip to help quell his lurching stomach because he hates bugs.
The dream just keeps getting stranger as Maka really starts to belt it out and sway to the disembodied music before tripping down the fire escape, vermin trailing as she goes. Stunned, Soul can't help but follow. He's clearly in some twilight zone shit and he really needs to find out where this is going. Fortunately, the collected vermin naturally seem to give him something of a berth, and he's able to trail Maka down the stairs without incident.
"You are my only friends in this place, and I need your help to end my disgrace. To search this city wide, keep those wings and feet beating while you're at my side. Because something's wrong with me, Something's not right. My things were taken from my side last night as I slept far from my bed, I was dreaming, but I should have stood my ground instead!"
Having made it to the sidewalk, Maka keeps moving, following the lead of several rats spreading out before her like a living carpet. Soul has to bite down on bile again as he quickens his pace to be just at her back. As she notices his continued presence, she raises a questioning eyebrow, pausing in her song for an instant, but as he shrugs sheepishly, she just turns around and keeps singing.
"So help find my things before you go-go. Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo. Help find my things before you go-go. I don't want to miss them when you say goodbye."
Well, shit. This is a cheesy 80s pop song knock off. He knew it. They're drifting into recurring nightmare territory, clearly.
Maka has reached the end of the block at this point, and as the undulating carpet of rats turns, so do they. There are people staring their way, shaking their heads and moving on. Yeah, the weird-shit-o-meter is off the charts and the sandman has long since entered for them all.
"Help find my things before you go-go, because I simply can't do it solo. Help find my things before you go-go, let's find the thief tonight! I wanna hit him hard, yeah yeah."
Happily skipping along, Maka pets a rat and lets a cockroach lite on her finger as she goes, and Soul's stomach churns again, but he still sticks close to Maka, fascinated and horrified and terrified at what will happen if he trails far enough behind for the swaths of creatures yet in tow to overtake him.
"You take all obstacles out of my way. Clear the path before me like a brand new day!"
And they do, too. People arc off the sidewalk, curving into oncoming traffic to avoid the onslaught of pestilence headed their way.
"We'll take this thief down with our wrath! And he'll be sorry that he crossed my path!"
Soul blurts out, before he can stop himself, "How do you know it's a he?"
Clearly, this is a mistake as the music comes to a screeching halt, and Maka turns to him, blinking. It's not her stare that makes him nervous, but the literally thousands of tiny eyes that surround them.
"Hm." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Good point."
The music starting right back up as she turns away shouldn't shock him at this point, but manages to anyway as she resumes singing and he blinks after her for a moment.
"Or maybe it's a lady, I don't care. Whoever did it we'll make them pay their fair share!"
As rats and roaches start to move past him, Soul stifles a scream and scrambles ahead to reenter Maka's seemingly sacred circle, the small berth of respect her swarm of followers afford her. He's panting at the exertion but more at the actual anxiety of being so very outnumbered.
Maka, of course, just keeps singing as if they were in some Broadway musical and not in the heart of Death City, skipping among a biblical plague made flesh in broad daylight on a Wednesday.
"You may be vermin but I know you'll fight! We can fight together and make this whole wrong turn right!"
The idea she's serenading the local pests into compliance to find her missing shit hits and hits hard. This fever dream is crossing the line into drug induced paranoia, worse than the one and only time he experimented with 'shrooms in college. Obviously, finding Maka at all had been a dream. It's the only thing that makes sense, and it floods him with a mix of relief and regret. The second feeling he doesn't quite get, but it hardly matters. Soul doubts he'll remember much of this in the morning anyway.
Clearly the first thought about Star drugging him must be right, against all logic, and whatever he's given him is strong, though what and when Soul can't manage to recall.
"So help find my things before you go-go, don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo!"
The massive, leading herd of rats has paused in front of a rather run down building several blocks from Soul's place, in one of the seedier sections of town. Lovely.
"Help find my things before you go-go, I don't want the miss them when you say goodbye."
The singing just continues on as the blanket of pestilence makes way before her as she approaches the door.
"Help find my things before you go-go, because I simply can't do it solo."
A small cadre of rats take the lead as she opens the door to the building, and as they stream upstairs, Maka follows, Soul still keeping close. Largely, she has ignored him in this little hallucinatory venture, but she's thrown him the occasional veiled look that is nearly withering and it makes as little sense as any of it.
"Help find my things before you go-go. Let's find the thief tonight! I wanna hit them hard, yeah, yeah friends!"
The rats pause before a door two flights up, dingy and worn, one of the sixes in 66 hanging loose to look like a 9.
"Rats and slugs!"
She snaps as she steps rhythmically back, and the rats form in ranks in front of her, then hurl themselves at the door, making bashing sounds. Soul cringes at the display, wanting to press against Maka in the urge to be farther from her 'friends,' but also not knowing her well enough to be able to do so. He presses his back into the wall as second best, her stiff form in front of him, stance wide as if preparing for a fight, far from comforting.
Seriously, fuck this dream.
"Birds and bugs!" The strange girl he follows is still snapping to the music, and this time the pigeons and roaches and flies swarm from the stairwell and towards the door in a loud cacophony as they too bash into it in waves.
Only two waves in, the door flings open to reveal some middle aged, overgrown pierced monster, with dirty blond-brown hair and filed teeth clearly meant to emulate the freak of genetics Soul has naturally been cursed with, lucky him. He's definitely seen this guy lurking and had always pegged him for a dealer.
"What the-?" The guy looks angry and startled all at once to find a mob of vermin at his doorstep, but what really catches Soul's eye is the oddity of the jeweled sword handle peeking out from a scabbard at his hip.
"Hey there's the bastard, move out now!" Maka half shouts, half sings.
"He's about to feel our anger, and how! He may try to run or even hide. We've got him now, don't let him get outside!"
Maka has lifted her arm as the man blinks, confused, towards the utter shitshow he has invited into his home. The open mouthed look of utter bewilderment, at least, Soul can sympathize with.
Then Maka lowers her arm and all hell breaks loose.
The only way Soul can describe it is the man is suddenly and forcefully overrun, the plague claiming him as its target, and seconds of struggle later, the vermin clear a circle around him and he's sprawled out on his ass, clearly unconscious.
Maka steps forward as the pests clear a path before their queen, and Soul remains pressed against the wall, far too stunned for more.
Not real, not real, not real, he reminds himself for all the molding against the wall presses sharply, painfully against his back and screams otherwise.
Humming an interlude, Maka first unbuckles the swordbelt and unceremoniously pulls it off to sling around her own hips, before her eyes swivel around the room. She disappears for a moment as she steps-somewhere inside beyond what is visible to Soul, then, returning with some sort of large leather bag slung over her shoulders, moves back through the doorway to stop before him.
"Done!" she sings out, her entourage getting restless behind her as the phantom background music remains in a sort of holding loop.
"Those-are not coming back to my place," he manages, still frozen in his spot against the wall.
"Oh, yeah." Sheepish, she turns to her strange comrades.
"Rats and bugs!" she shout-sings.
"You helped me, now you can go-go, my things are all secure, so-so. You have my thanks now as you go-go, I'll surely miss you when you say goodbye."
In a sequence of events perhaps more puzzling than the gathering of pestilence, the swarm begins to move past them and away in every direction, the occasional rat, bird, or roach, pausing for a bit of personal attention from Maka.
"Yet now I'm set, so you can go-go, don't you worry 'cause I won't be gratitude as you all go-go, my friends, you were great in that fight!"
As suddenly as they came they are gone, the phantom music fading with them, and all that's left is Maka, looking rather red faced as her gaze moves away from the random thug still sprawled out on his ass behind them.
With the surreality of the plague of vermin dissipated and the music gone, the wood sticking into his back becomes more prominent, and Soul curses involuntary, peeling his back from the self inflicted torment.
"This-isn't a dream." The haze is gone and the truth hits him like a frieght train.
"Nope," she says brightly.
"I-" he's shaking his head violently, words scattering with his thoughts. "There were-and you sang, and then there were-"
"Look." Her face is crimson and Soul's not sure if he should call it embarrassment or anger. "It's not like I enjoy singing summons, but I needed my things and it worked." Her hand moves to her hip as she taps an impatient foot.
"Singing-summons?" Soul is gaping again as he's reminded how weird this dream that isn't a dream really is, and he wonders if he's actually just gone stark raving mad.
"You don't have princesses here, do you."
It's more statement than a question, but he answers anyway. "Not-really, no. Not like that anyway. You're-you're saying you're a princess?"
The huff is loud and long. "I only told you that when I introduced myself." Maka looks at him for a moment, brow furrowed. "You look unwell," she finally says. "Let me help you back to your dwelling and I'll return these things and get out of your hair. You certainly seem as though-"
"You can stay-" Soul blurts before he knows he means to, and she looks puzzled herself for an instant before her face brightens, then shifts to a careful neutral.
"It is a most generous offer, but I would not trouble you fur-"
"I mean it," Soul cuts her off, and as the surprise returns to her features, he quickly adds. "Look, you're clearly new to the city." Or country. Or planet. Or dimension, his mind fills in the unspoken. "It wouldn't feel right to just- leave you on your own when I can help."
The grin that spreads on her face is like the breaking sun on a cloudy day, and he could almost sing, it's so warm. It's also absurd, the whole thing is absurd, and he should just walk away and leave her to her own devices, yet somehow he can't.
He always has been a glutton for punishment.
"That's very kind of you," Maka finally says. "I promise it won't be for longer than it takes me to figure out this world, okay?"
"Take as long as you need," Soul answers, and as he steps away from the wall and to the stairwell, Maka falling into step beside him, he realizes, with more than a little consternation, that he actually means it.
A week in and it already feels like she's been there forever.
Soul is waiting just outside the dressing room in an upscale boutique as Maka is fussed and fretted over on the other side of the door, occasionally appearing before him fighting a prominent scowl as two attendants gush at her sides. The fact she seems to so intensely dislike the attention is ironic given her claims to royalty, but Soul finds the whole thing amusing enough to play along. Which, he supposes, is ironic in and of itself; he's never much been one for shopping.
Stepping out in the next find, she looks a bit less disgruntled with the choice. It's a short short short black skirt along with a red tank top and some rather high boots. Pursing her lips for a moment, clearly fighting back a smile, she looks his way.
"It's-not terrible, right?"
"I dunno, I sort of liked the long cocktail dress you tried on last." Maka scowls his way and he relents. "Buuuut it looks passable, so I guess it's a go. We'll take that one, too." Soul looks to the women, both wearing identical plastic smiles, who nonetheless manage to look genuinely pleased. They should be; he's set to drop a pretty penny in this store. Well, it's not like he's ever much minded running up the family charge card.
And anyway, she does need clothes, and he has chosen to help her while she figures things out. Not that he's quite sure he believes the whole 'princess from another world' bit, but even if it's deception or mental illness greasing the wheels, Maka genuinely does need help, and Soul genuinely can't help but be drawn to her for reasons he still can't quite put a finger on. It hardly matters; he's got the time, space, and money to help her out, and she's interesting. Aside from which, he's still trying to decide just what that whole pied piper bit had been. Soul isn't convinced it hadn't all just been one giant hallucination, but considering that they had spotted the thug who took her stuff as they left the apartment one day and he'd run screaming, and considering as well she had actually gotten said stuff back, he just doesn't know what to think anymore.
Smiling at him genuinely for an instant, Maka turns around and marches back into the dressing room. It's more purposeful than graceful, and he finds he likes that about her, too, that she seems to have a stock of niceties, but prefers not to use them. It reminds him of himself in a way. Maybe that's the draw.
Or maybe it's that she's so damn strange and he's so damn bored. Probably, it's a few things. It doesn't hurt that she has wide green eyes that, more and more, do strange things to his heart rate, either. Is this attraction? It's not something he's really felt before. Eyes and lips and legs have had little effect on him ever, but the more time he spends with her, the more her everything stirs him in new ways. It's thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, and Soul doesn't know what to do with himself it's so damn new.
His brother would definitely laugh his ass off at the sight, Mr. Cool as a Cucumber who brushes off every advance-following some girl with long legs and eyes like the spring. Actually, that's sure to happen far too soon since his brother is due to visit in a few days, shit. So much for his cool card. When Wes gets one look at Maka, he'll know, and it'll forever be in his shame bank. He's already had to blow off Blake for days to keep him from getting too nosy.
Well, there are worse things than catching shit over a girl. Maybe. Probably.
Twenty minutes later, they are out of the store with two large bags. The shopping trip lasts another two boutiques and four hours, and when they are done, they really are loaded down with packages, boxes, and bags. Soul is glad he'd had the foresight to call for a car. No way this shit would have fit on the bike. He sort of wonders if she'd even be willing to ride with him. So far, they've kept to walking, and while she seems content to offer a punch to the arm when he's being overly snarky, she really doesn't get that close most of the time. Would she be willing to sit that way, so near? Probably not, nice as it sounds. Maka needs help, but if there's one thing he's sure she's not here for, it's romance since she scoffs at every sappy love story that she runs across.
Truth be told, he's not sure what she's here for-she's never really said. When he'd asked why she left Albarn, wherever that is, she hedged and mumbled something about having a disagreement with the King. Must have been some disagreement to send her to a different world, assuming she really is from some other world-still a stretch in his mind. Not that Soul minds hearing about her 'world.' Even if it is a figment of her imagination, it still sounds damned interesting. Maybe she should write a book.
They're almost home, which is nice; he's looking forward to a quiet evening of takeout and a movie. Maka's obsessed with the food and culture around her, and television and movies and books and the internet have become her means of educating herself, along with a variety of take out. Day two of her stay, she had discovered television, and spent the next two days glued to it like it's the next wonder of the world. For her, maybe it is.
Cars are still a wonder, too. At first, she hadn't wanted to ride in one at all-something about almost being killed by a metal monster-but she's grown more accustomed. Still, Maka will sometimes burst into a new slew of questions about them. Introducing her to Google has probably saved him from having to empty the contents of his brain like some sort of knowledge buffet before her onslaught of curiosity a dozen times at this point.
They pass a bus, a block from pulling up to his building, and she huffs. Maka has been looking wide eyed out the window the entire car ride as she always does, still in awe of pretty much everything, but at the moment, she looks incredulous as she turns to him.
"Can you believe that?" She's chosen to wear the black skirt and red tank home, a large improvement over his sweats and old tee she'd ventured out in, even if Soul finds the amount of leg on display shamefully distracting.
"Believe-what?" he blinks at her, ready at this point for anything.
"That!" She points to a billboard on a passing bus. It's an advertisement for the upcoming Beauty and the Beast live action film. She wrinkles her nose in distaste.
"I-it's a movie billboard?" He knows what's coming. Every now and again, Maka acts like fairy tale shit is real and tends to correct the details as if it's badly recited rumor.
"Yes, but they've got it all wrong! Since when is the Beast male? Everyone knows the Beast is a woman-her name is Arianna if you're wondering-and that Bella broke the curse. It was quite the scandal at the time. It's not traditional for princesses to marry one another, you know-it 'ought' to have been a prince." She rolls her eyes at this, clearly skeptical. "As if only commoners fall in love with members of their own sex! It's absurd is what it is, but anyway-they're clearly buying into the version some people want to peddle as true, but it's not, trust me."
"I-trust you." Soul manages not to laugh. It is funny, to hear her so adamant about a damned fairy tale, but he also can't help but to admire her passion. That type of conviction, it's amazing. She's amazing. Strange, but amazing.
The smile that she offers at that is dazzling, spreading on her features and lighting up the world. "Well, good. You should."
They pull up to the his building just then, and Soul's not sorry to be spared a response. He feels far too much far too soon, and moments like this just underscore how one sided those feelings must be. For her, he's a friend and benefactor, so trust makes sense as they become more acquainted. For him though? Trust is nearly an instinct.
How has she wormed her way into his very soul so quickly? To hell if he knows. It's unlike him, to trust so easily. Probably, it's dangerous, but at this point he figures he's along for whatever ride she's taking him on. He'd follow her anywhere, he thinks.
When the driver carries their packages into his place for them, he's grateful. It takes the poor guy four trips, and as Soul directs him to leave them in Maka's room-the largest guest room-he is sure to leave a massive tlp. The man had worked for it, and it's not like Soul is particular in how he spends his family's money. Hell, since he's followed the path they chose for him, becoming the concert pianist they practically forced him to be, so he figures he's earned it.
Actually, that reminds him-he'll need to have the maid that comes in twice a week do a good scrub down of the second guest room. Wes is going to be enough of a whiny ass about being usurped from the bigger room by Maka as it is; no need to give him more cause to groan over some stray speck of dust. While Wes is far and away more easy going than Soul has ever been about most things, he's also a spoiled brat who expects his living space to be spotless and luxurious. While his public veneer is far too polite to voice this expectation to most people, all bets are off when it comes to his baby brother. Lucky him.
When the driver leaves, Soul makes his way to the upstairs sitting room and breaks out a bag of popcorn to pop since Maka has gone to put away her new things. Wes has given him shit for the small wet bar complete with microwave and mini fridge he had installed up here when he moved in, but really, who wants to keep running downstairs for snacks when you're trying to marathon a season of "The Walking Dead" or pull an online "Battlefront" all nighter? Certainly not him.
Sinking into the brand new leather of his overstuffed couch, Soul sighs. He still can't believe he'd had to order a new one, but what choice did he have? There had been enormous holes cut into it along with the curtains. Even the pair who removed the stuff and delivered replacements couldn't believe it.
Clothing shaped holes. In the furniture. Who does that?
Maka, apparently.
Her third day here, he'd woken up to find her cheerily preparing breakfast downstairs, or at least attempting to cook breakfast. She really can't cook worth a shit. All she knows how to make is cheese soufflé and she always burns it, all three times she's tried so far. The first try had been that morning, and Soul had marveled at her outfit as he tried to shove down his flat, blackened mess of egg and cheese without visibly grimacing.
When Maka had retrieved her things earlier in the week, there had only been a couple more garbage cosplay outfits, he'd thought, but here she was in a black leather jacket and plaid school girl skirt. Though oddly familiar, he chocked it up to it being a classic combo. It was a good look on her-especially the way it showed off her legs.
And she had seemed damn proud of it too, beaming beneath the heavy dark circles shadowing her bright green eyes as he remarked that it was a cool outfit.
"Ah thanks!" Her enthusiasm had been a bit much so early in the morning, and even more inexplicable coupled with such dark smudges-she really couldn't have slept much. In fact, she might not have slept at all-she was still up watching TV a few hours before when he'd woken up and drifted down the hall for a late night snack.
"I saw it on that magic television box, and since the clothes I brought aren't exactly normal here, I thought I'd try. I had to borrow some fabric, though-I hope you don't mind!"
"Borrowed-fabric?" Yes, because he kept swatches lying around. Where had she found…
And then the familiarity clicked. That skirt. Soul had definitely seen that pattern before!
"Well, yes. From your sitting room with the magic box. I can hire a witch to mend it when I get more suitable attire, but I really did need to-"
He hadn't caught the rest as he'd flown up the stairs and into the sitting room, only to find clothing shaped holes cut into his couch and curtains.
When she had appeared behind him, clearly concerned, he just shook his head.
"You made clothes out of my furniture?" Disbelief permeated his tone, because really?
"Well, yes, I just told you that!" Maka sounded indignant, hand on her hip as she moved to face him. "And as I also said, I will happily hire a witch to mend-"
"Maka," he interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Like so much about her, this, too, had been surreal.
"What?" Defensive tended to be a default for her, Soul was quickly coming to realize.
"We don't have witches here, remember."
There had been a sharp intake of breath and a muttered, "Oh. Yeah." At least she had the decency to sound sheepish. "I'll-replace them, Soul, when I can. I swear it!"
"It's-it's fine." He'd pinched harder, forcing a laugh. "Mom and Dad can replace it. And they can definitely afford to buy you a new wardrobe."
"Mom and Dad?" She'd shaken her head. "Soul, I don't-"
"Don't worry about it." He waved her off. "Let's just finish breakfast, alright?"
Several days later, they've finally managed the new wardrobe and to replace the furniture. He's forcefully reminded of how successful the first part had been as she finally comes in and plops down on the other side of the couch, legs on full display. Actually, this couch is also much more comfortable than the prior fashion over function monstrosity his brother had pushed on him, so win all around.
"Ready to watch a movie?" Soul offers as she reaches over to take a handful of popcorn from the bag in his lap, and for as much as she doesn't sit as close as he'd like, it strikes him how comfortable she seems. They've spent a lot of time this week on the couch like this, only a cushion between them-watching things, or her reading as he plays a videogame, or her voraciously conquering Google as he scribbles out music he'll never share. Maybe they're both becoming comfortable.
"If you'd like," Maka responds with a small smile.
"Nah, I popped this for shits and giggles," he says before shoving a handful in his mouth for emphasis and moving the bag to the cushion between them. "Cinderella okay?"
"You mean-there's a movie about Queen Danielle?" she gasps out, excited.
"I guess," he says with a small shrug. In truth, Soul's chosen a fairytale on purpose, her little outburst in the car reminding him of how much he enjoys witnessing her indignation when the filmmakers inevitably get it 'wrong.'
Really, though, he just enjoys her company, and since he realizes there's got to be an expiration date on how long she sticks around, he figures he should savor it while it lasts.
Leave it to Wes to ruin everything.
He shows up two days early, disheveled and beaming. Of course he'd flown in during a rare monsoon. Of course.
Leave it to Wes to enter the house in a sopping whirlwind. Such drenching rains are rare and powerful and yet, the combination of rains and Wes and Maka have collated into the perfect storm right in the middle of his living room.
"Soul!" she shrieks, "There's a thief in the living room!"
When he rushes downstairs at the commotion, he finds Maka, sword in hand, wearing a pair of boy shorts and a tank top. She's waving her blade at another figure menacingly-his brother is in a black trench, hair plastered to his forehead and dripping onto Soul's living room floor as he eyes the photograph he's clearly scooped up off the table speculatively. It contains a strip of photo booth pictures of him and Maka together that she had both insisted they take as well as frame because, as she put it, his house "lacks the portraits of television homes." She had called it sterile, which he has to admit stings. There's nothing wrong with keeping things uncluttered.
"Unhand that portrait, ruffian!"
"Of course!" Wes returns, beaming her way like the cat who got the cream as he places the frame back on the side table. Then his gaze swivels Soul's way, calculating, to where he stands on the stairs in boxers. "Little Brother! You didn't tell me you had a new friend!"
With a hand through his hair, and a deep sigh, Soul walks closer to both house guests. "Maka, Wes, Wes, Maka. He's not a thief, he's my brother."
The incredulous look she swings his way is well earned. He'd meant to remind her Wes would be visiting, he really had, but his brother is early and Maka's still settling, and things had been comfortable. Soul had been waiting for the right moment and, forgetting how capricious Wes can be, had waited just a bit too long. Well, shit.
"Your... brother?" The sword ends up back in the sheath at her side, and he has to admit he's surprise she has it on at all since he hasn't seen it in over a week, not since the day after she'd gotten it back. "Well, it's-nice to make your acquaintance." She is suddenly all smiles as she holds out a hand. He can't tell if it's meant to shake as she's seen others do now, or to kiss, but Wes being Wes takes it as the later, snatching up her fingers into a dry, chaste smooch.
"The pleasure is mine, I assure you." His voice oozes sincerity. Soul has seen this song and dance a thousand thousand times, and his brother turning it Maka's way has a fist clenching in Soul's stomach, wringing his insides.
"Now that we're all acquainted." Soul moves closer. "And since you're here two days early at five in the goddamn morning." He glares at Wes. "Why don't we go get some breakfast?"
"Ah, well, I am a bit peckish, I'll admit." Wes is fairly easy to lure with a good meal and, just now, Soul needs a clear path to gather his thoughts. Breakfast, as predictable as it usually
is, should give him that.
"I could make something!" Maka puts in, and Soul has to bite back a groan. So much for predictability.
"I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself," Wes responds with his normal hyper politeness.
"Oh no trouble at all!" Maka beams and scurries off to the kitchen. "Hope you like soufflé!" she adds over her shoulder.
"Love it!" His enthusiasm isn't even feigned-cheese soufflé is his favorite. Well, Soul figures, he'll learn. Plus really, the bastard deserves it.
Of course, Wes rarely gets what he deserves, Soul thinks darkly an hour later as they all dig into Maka's offering. She's attempted soufflé five times since arriving-she wants to pull her weight she always insists-and five times it's been burnt or undercooked beyond edibility.
This time, the sixth time, the damn thing looks perfect. Figures. Fucking Wes.
It's delicious, too. Maka sits across from them in the frilly apron Wes had gifted him on a whim and one of the skirt/blouse combos they picked up-she'd run upstairs to change when the soufflé hit the oven-looking more than pleased. Wes is going to think he's stumbled onto Betty fucking Crocker and Soul can smell the shit coming from miles away.
He might groan in wary anticipation if his mouth weren't too full of heaven for that. Who fucking knew she could manage something that wasn't raw or black?
A throat clearing interrupts his momentary bliss. "So, how long have you two been dating, anyway?"
Soul sputters and coughs and nearly chokes on his soufflé as he's caught off guard. Though really, this is Wes, so Soul should have guessed he'd to cut right to it.
"Dating?" Maka furrows her brow as her eyes rest on her choking host in mild concern. "That's-isn't that when two people are involved romantically but aren't yet wed? I've seen it on your television, but it's not-" she shakes her head, color creeping up her cheeks.
"We're not dating," Soul finally sucks in enough air to gasp out, as much flustered because the thought isn't a bad one as by anything. Before Wes can interrupt with more ridiculous speculation, Soul sucks in another breath to hurriedly add, "Maka's new to town and I'm helping her get on her feet, that's it."
The rapidity with which she nods emphatic agreement stings a bit, but it's not like he hasn't realized the growing gooeyness he feels for her is destined to be unrequited. All things considered, that's definitely for the best.
"I...see," Wes says with a look that reveals he doesn't see at all but also can't be bothered to pry further. Though, of course that's just a bullshit Evans' tactic, and further prying is inevitable.
They get through breakfast with no more incident as Maka uses some reservoir of social niceties from her delusional princess stores to focus the conversation on Wes. She ooos and ahhhs in all the right places over the elder Evans' accomplishments and exploits, and even manages to turn the conversation to Soul and his own music. Maka has shown some curiosity over his profession, but since he's currently on a self imposed two month sabbatical, he's managed to largely avoid the topic. Her keen interest as Wes describes his prominence as a concert pianist makes him squirm, especially since he's well aware that it is his name more than his skill that draws conductors and audiences alike. Especially since he hates it so damn much.
Leave it to his brother to act like he's actually got talent.
Still, it leads the conversation away from Maka's presence, and that's something to be grateful for, anyway. The last thing he needs is for his brother to figure out she's borderline batshit.
He might have known the moment Maka excused herself upstairs that Wes would pounce.
"So. Little Brother," he begins, clapping a hand on Soul's shoulder. "Maka seems like a nice girl. Are you sure you two aren't…?" He leaves the question open and Soul groans.
"We're not anything, like I told you. Fucking hell, Wes, lay off."
"If you say so," he replies arily, clearly unconvinced. "In any case, even if she's just a friend, at least you'll have a date to the Shibusen Charity Dinner. Novel concept, I know." He removes his hand from Soul's shoulder to lean back into the cushions. "Glad it's not me this time, anyway."
"Wait, what?"
It's impossible to hide his incredulity.
"Shibusen's Charity Dinner. When that Mortimer fellow phoned father directly, he agreed that an Evans would be present. I guess they are looking to book enough important names to draw more donations, something like that. In any case, knowing you're about as social as a sack of rocks and that I intended to visit, I was originally solicited to attend for the family honor, but alas!" Wes sighs dramatically, draping the back of his hand over his forehead.
"Alas, what?" Soul grits out.
"It seems mother was able to book me for a special appearance with the Russian National Ballet, so I'll be unable to fulfill that obligation-I'm actually here early because I can't attend-which leaves you, dear brother."
"You've-got to be shitting me." Unbefuckinglievable.
"I am not shitting you in the slightest, you have my word. In fact, I really do wish I weren't since I'd love to see more of you with your-"
"-if you call her my girlfriend again, I swear to fuck Wes-"
"-friend."
Soul scowls but remains silent.
"She seems very nice," Wes continues. "A little odd, perhaps, but then, so are you, Brother."
"She is nice," Soul admits. "And maybe a little weird, okay? But I really am just helping her, and we really are just friends."
"But you want to be more?" Wes suggests, eyebrows raised.
Does he?
There is no good answer, and if, in this case, Wes takes his silence as assent, Soul realizes he might not be wrong.
The dress looks better on her than he remembers from the store.
It's a classic style, probably Chanel influenced if he remembers his mother's chatter correctly. Short, wide yet structured skirt and thick straps. It's black and gold and Maka looks amazing with her ashen hair swept to the side.
"You're-certain this is acceptable? It seems very short for a ball gown…"
"It's a dinner, not a ball. But yeah, you're good. And I'm sorry that Wes dragged you into this."
Her smile seems genuine as she dismisses his concern. "I don't mind, honesty. I'm curious about how such gatherings work here. If this is the proper attire, then it is already quite a change."
A heavenward eye roll is Soul's first response, followed by, "Preeeetty sure we've established you're from some weird backward place."
A glare follows on her part. "It's not weird, just different."
He shrugs because is there really a difference when she thinks she came straight out of a fantasy novel?
Admittedly, he's still not sure what to make of that, of her, but Soul shoves it down because they need to leave, and while he hates these overwrought charity functions, the prospect of having Maka on his arm all night really isn't a bad one. He wants to bless and curse his brother for this all in one breath.
"Anyway, limo's waiting, so we should probably get going." Holding out his arm as he'd been taught to do in the presence of a lady, Maka takes it as he knows she's also been taught to do, and they make their way to the limo and then off to the dinner.
It really is a grand affair, with an expectantly sumptuous multi course repast followed by dancing. Maka seems absorbed, in any case, though she does occasionally ask him a hushed question about the clothing or the food or the people around them or the music. She doesn't exactly seem out of her element, which Soul supposes shouldn't come as a surprise considering she does claim royal blood. Delusion or not, it shows in the ease with which she navigates through the space, and when he remarks on it, she offers a polite little shrug.
"It is not so very different from such things in Albarn. Perhaps the attire is less modest, and perhaps the dishes are different, but in the end, it is very much the same." Maka sounds almost disappointed with that, though she smiles and attempts polite conversation just the same. Soul can't help but notice that she has become aware of her own deficiencies about what she calls "his world," and redirects or laughs off her ignorance as if it were intentional when she makes gaffes. It's almost dizzying, watching her interact with others as though she is in her element, and in a way, perhaps she is.
For his part, Soul feels as uncomfortable as he always does at these things, though having Maka at his side does prove soothing in a way he can't quite grasp.
Which is why, when he excuses himself to the restroom just after dinner ends and comes back to find her gone, his heart lurches.
Easy, easy, she probably went to the bathroom herself-she's long since learned how to use one-or perhaps she was drawn away in conversation.
Or she could have been lured by some predatory son of a bitch, or could be-fuck, who knew? Maka can take care of herself, he knows that, but she is also still pretty clueless about most things, and-
Soul doesn't hesitate longer, but moves to find her. He drifts by the bathroom for a minute, but with no way to verify her presence, his eyes scan the large ballroom. Dancing has begun, the live partial orchestra cranking out the classics, but there is no hint of ash or black and gold or green, so he moves his eyes to the perimeters and lets his steps follow. She is not among the crowds gossiping off to the sides either, so he starts checking the balconies that ring the space.
The first is empty, and on the second he finds a couple who are very clearly seeking privacy. The rabid blush that heats his face as he quickly shuts the doors behind him is as embarrassing as the scene itself, and he's flustered as he makes his way to the third balcony in a daze because he did not need to see that. He knows both men; one is Kilik Rung, a close friend from the jazz music scene he follows, and the other is the one actually throwing the charity event, Mayor Mortimer's very own son, Theodore Mortimer III, known to friends as Kid. Soul hadn't even realized the two knew each other, let alone… let alone… It hardly matters, he doesn't care, he just has no desire to see anyone swapping spit, let alone pawing at one another so crudely. Gross.
Maka, Maka, he needs to find Maka. Because-danger. Or something.
More cautious approaching the third balcony, Soul tries to peer through the glass of the door, but it's too frosted too make out much more than there is a shape outside that could be Maka, but also could be someone else. There's also-music? Maybe? It's definitely not the orchestra and it definitely doesn't belong. Strange.
The song sounds vaguely familiar, yet also not, and it's absolutely Maka's voice he realizes as he puts an ear to the door, but why is she singing?
Allowing himself to open the door just a crack, Soul blinks at the odd scene before him as Maka sings to a group of squirrels, birds, and a few stray mice and rats perched upon the balcony. The deja vu makes him dizzy.
"I'm watching the sky tonight." Her eyes drift up as she sings it, then she spins, her black and gold skirt fluttering. "Dreaming I'm still by your side." She stops to pet a squirrel, then continues on. "Watching this strange world wind around and round, I'll be coming home next year." There's a deep sigh punctuating that, a sadness, a longing that makes him long himself to hold her. Maka has shown plenty of emotion in their brief time together, but this is the first time he's ever really seen her sad.
Soul also hadn't realized she knows this song-she's clearly singing some modified version of the Foo Fighters-but with how much television she's been watching, and how she keeps the radio on when she sleeps, she probably has heard it.
"I'll be coming home next year," she sings the refrain. "Everything's alright in here, I can't come back, but I'll be coming home-" she startles as she spins and spots him, and the music comes to a sudden, screeching halt, small animals scattering. "Soul!" she gasps. "I didn't realize-I mean-I'm-"
How flustered she is-Soul hasn't seen her like this since the first day, not really. And she'd been singing, and there were small animals, just like that not-dream he's been trying so hard to forget. Is he hallucinating again or is she not actually off her rocker? Could she have been telling the truth?
His mind can't quite grasp that possibility, so he shakes his head to clear it. "I, er, I mean," he interrupts as he pushes the door open and steps through. "Was worried? So I came to find you?"
"Oh," she Maka breathily. "I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't mean-I mean, I was-" she sighs and steps towards him, putting a hand on his arm as she takes in a cleansing breath. "This-whole thing reminded me of home, and I guess, realizing I'll probably never see Albarn or-or my papa again, I got-homesick, I guess. So I'm sorry if I worried you."
"It's okay," he manages. "I understand." He doesn't, not exactly, though loss he supposes he knows. "I just-were you singing the Foo Fighters to animals?"
Biting her lip, she colors. "Um, yes? I didn't really mean to, I don't normally like to sing, but, um, like I said-it just sort of happened. Sorry."
"No-it's-you don't need to be sorry. But we should probably go in, maybe go soon since dinner's over and the dancing's started."
"Oh!" Maka's suddenly smiling, but then her brow creases in thought. "But-I thought you said this wasn't a ball?"
"It's not?"
"But there's dancing,"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Then we should dance," she says matter of factly, as if there could be no other possibility. And he wants to protest because he hates dancing, but as she smiles his way, he finds the prospect of dancing with her isn't exactly terrible, so instead he sighs.
"I guess," he concedes, holding out his arm and leading them to the dance floor.
As they face each other, she looks nervous. "Sorry I'm not-uh-very good." Her smile is both sheepish and determined and it makes him warm.
"Don't worry." He smiles back in spite of any lingering reluctance. "I'll lead."
And before he even knows what's happening, they're dancing.
Soul has always always always hated dancing. Sure, he's good at it, but it's stuffy, it's formal, and his dancing master had been a real asshole.
Somehow none of that matters with Maka, and the world goes still around them as they dance the waltz from The Sleeping Beauty. Holding her close, one hand is warm in his as he touches her waist, as she grips his shoulder, as they move in time. Soul's never understood the appeal of dancing, only suddenly, he does. He could do this forever, he thinks, could lose himself in music and in her.
Only, only, it can't last, of course it can't, and the orchestra comes to a confused, screeching halt as a sudden, impossibly loud cry of, "Maka my love, I have come!" fills the room, all eyes turning towards the source.
And standing in middle of the flung open balcony doors is perhaps the oddest man Soul has ever seen.
Wearing something straight out of a fantasy flick, all velvet tunic and breeches and codpiece with a sword on his hip, the man stands with arm outstretched and pointing straight at himself and Maka, the odd spikes at the sides of his otherwise flawlessly arranged hair practically quivering.
"I've found you!" he shouts gleefully, and at this, Maka ducks behind Soul, gripping his arms so tightly it's nearly painful. "But what's this? Unhand her, ruffian! Unhand my love, my one, my only, the fair Princess Maka!"
Soul wants to laugh and cry at the sheer ridiculousness of it all as he realizes the guy is actually talking to him, wants to scream and guffaw all at once at the number of eyes turned their way, at the surreality of the whole scene, at being the center of such bullshit, but as the stranger draws his blade and comes barrelling towards them, mostly he just wants to run.
About to do just that and pull Maka with him, he's shocked to realize she's no longer there, even more shocked when she appears in front of him, her own blade drawn, stance wide. Where she'd managed to hide the damn thing is a mystery Soul has no time to contemplate as she stares down the stunned man with the sword, who has come to an ungainly halt several feet in front of her.
"My lo-"
"Prince Ox," she practically spits his name. "You are not welcome here. Go."
"But Maka, my love, I would only rescue you from the miscreant who has clearly taken you away fr-"
"I said," she cuts him off, voice low. "You are not welcome. Now. Go before I make you go."
The man looks confused, his head turning to look for-well, Soul isn't exactly sure until he spots a man in armor several feet back holding a spear. He catches them exchanging looks and sees the man in armor rolling his eyes just before he slams down the visor of his helmet and starts to circle.
"Worry not, my love, we will see you rescued from this villain who has so clearly stolen your senses with his demon magic."
Music swells, not from the orchestra but in the same disembodied way that it has for Maka twice now, and then Ox is singing. What the fuck is it with people singing lately, anyway?
"Oh, my love, my darling," he begins, and this song is also familiar. "I've hungered for your touch! A long, lonely time." He steps closer, and Soul can see Maka tense in front of him. "And now, that I've found you here, love, I'll free you from this curse," he croons, stepping yet closer, "so you'll be mine!"
The man-Prince Ox-has no time to finish as Maka swings her blade his way and music comes to an abrupt halt when he's forced to parry. Shit. Shit.
"My love, please, you must not-we must not fight."
"Then drop your sword, let us go, and there'll be no need," she says cooly.
The prince shakes his head, "I must liberate you, my own, my dearest, but I swear I-"
Again the man cannot finish, but not out of surprise. Distracted with his own blathering, Maka uses the opening to strike a quick, fierce blow to his head with the flat of her blade, and Soul marvels as the man collapses before them like a sack of bricks, dropping hard.
"Soul, we should-"
The audience-for it is an audience that circles them now, chattering loudly about it being a fine show, wow, and how Mortimer really out did himself-parts, and Maka cuts off her words and brandishes her blade as the man in armor approaches.
"Do you really want to end up like your Prince, Sir D'Eclair?" she says tiredly.
To this, the man reaches back to holster his spear on his back and, upon raising his visor, lifts his empty palms placatingly.
"Not really," he says flatly. "Just need to collect my liege lord, not fight in his stead. Please do carry on, Highness. I'll be sure to send him your regards when he wakes."
A curt nod is all Maka offers, and the crowd whistles and cheers as the man hauls the unconscious prince over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes and makes his way back to the balcony from which they'd come.
Soul wonders if anyone has called the cops, but based on the applause, he sort of doubts it-they think it's a show. Is it a fucking show?
Too stunned to protest, he lets Maka lead him out of the room, through the halls, down the front steps of the college, and into the night air. She stops at the stunned valet, who eyes her skeptically, gaze flicking to the sword so incongruous at her hip, but he still offers to summon their limo.
"Maka, wha-" As the man turns his back, she mutters a word, touches one strange, ornate gold and silver bracelet she's taken to wearing, and then the sword is gone, vanished into thin air. Soul blinks once, twice. "I mean, how-what-"
The valet returns, also blinking, then shakes his head.
"Limo should be here in just a moment, Mr. Evans," the poor guy recovers enough to get out.
Nodding his dismissal, Soul hears the man mutter that he must be losing it as he walks away.
He's not the only one.
"Where did the sword come from-where did it go? Who the hell was that?" It comes out in a rush, a tumble of words, he's so confused.
"The sword-well, I made a new deal with Kim to get a charm to let me summon it since I can't really carry it in your world without scaring people, now can I?"
Even he has to concede the truth of that, but still. "So-it's magic. You-summoned it. Magic is-fuck, the thing with the bugs and rats and shit, that was real? Magic is fucking-it's fucking real?" His head is spinning, his world tilting, because seriously, what the fuck?
"I'm pretty sure we established that awhile ago," Maka sighs.
"And-and that guy?"
"Prince Ox. My-" she falters for an instant, then holds her chin high "-my betrothed. And we really must leave, because he won't be out for long and I don't want to him to find us again-and trust me, he will find us again."
A betrothed. Maka has-a betrothed? She's engaged?
"That's your fiance? You're running-you're running from your fiance?"
"It's a-very long story," she says as the limo pulls up. "And I swear I'll tell it to you, but for now-can we just go? I would really rather not fight him again if I can help it."
"Yeah, okay." Soul swallows thickly as he opens the door and they both slide into the limo.
A fiance. Maka has a fiance.
There's an inexplicable pit in Soul's stomach as they speed off towards home.