A/N: My schedules are bad and rigged with holes. Sorry. Having a bit of an existential crisis/ a lot of writer's block at the moment, as well as having the attention spam of a Sims addict and someone who has just discovered Tumblr. But hey. I'm here now. Tis all good.
The evening is a meeting of night and day, a blurred area in which nothing is certain except the numbers on the clock and the grass on the ground and the sun and the moon in the flower field sky.
That uncertainty siphoned into every pore of Maka's body as she stood, stock still, hand hovering over a book she secretly coveted but had never found, a prime example of ergodic literature. This was probably her only chance of finding the novel, yet her eyes strayed elsewhere, her mind was filled with something other than words.
Consonant noise poured out from the stairwell, seeping into every crack, straining against the walls, striking each chord in Maka's being. The intellectual curiosity of her kind stirred within her, and she was slowly torn from her bookshelf. She walked slowly up to the staircase, pausing on the threshold of the two floors. She knew what was below, but her head couldn't fit together the pieces. The facets she understood- the sibilant French, the historical influence, the hollow of sound- and yet the concept of music remained an incomplete jigsaw in her head. A refrain she recognised from the depths of mainstream composition trickled from the worm-eaten floorboards. Mozart, probably. Mozart, only because he was one of the three composers she could actually name.
It was that curiosity of the naturally intelligent led her down those stairs. That selfsame curiosity may have killed the cat but it was showing Maka a new part of life. Perhaps the killing was still to come- it was obvious the smoke that lingered was not from any fancy pyrotechnics- but something in the piano's refrain told her there was nothing but good here.
It was difficult to see for the dim lights and the shield of smoke, but she could make out a couple details. The cellar was high and vaulted, and the alcoves that would once have held books were full of abstract art and light fixtures. Dark figures drifted around the floor, brooding creatures with long fingers stretched by the shadows that swallowed them. At the far end of the room was a raised platform, too crude to be called a stage. There were four players; a drummer, a pianist, a singer and a guitarist. The lyrics of the song were strangely calming over the instruments beneath it.
The pale man on the piano looked almost ethereal in the light, and as their eyes locked, it was almost as if he was a ghost. A feeling she didn't understand trickled down her spine. And then she recognised it as a sort of recognition, as the pale man on the piano was none other than Soul Evans.
Three things struck her at once. Firstly, that she had been wrong. He didn't play the violin. Secondly, that the lilting melody was good in ways that she couldn't possibly understand. And last of all, she realised that there wasn't a more beautiful sound than his music.
She listened closely, trying to understand what made it so stunning. Maybe it was the melody, encapsulating the song of wind and the sea and the birds. Maybe it was the notes themselves, skimming like stones on the top of the river. Maybe it was the way they trailed into one another, never once pausing for breath. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the caress of Soul's graceful fingers that took her breath away.
She was so rapt by the sonata that it came as a surprise when the music ceased. The group moved offstage to the sound of an enthusiastic crowd. Beside her, a group of girls were conversing in hushed French, "The pianist? That's Soul. His brother's a famous violinist."
"Music runs in the family, huh?"
"I guess. Though I don't like how… classical his melodies are. Very straight up, very Mozart."
There were a couple of nods from the others. Maka wanted to disagree. It was that very same classicism, that sort of simplicity, that made them so beautiful.
Soul was heading towards her. She smiled and raised a hand as a shy greeting, "That was great, Soul."
He barely acknowledged the compliment, "What're you doing here, Maka?"
"Is it a problem?"
"No! Course not. It's brilliant."
It had been a surprise. The way she'd stood shyly at the foot of the stairs had instantly marked her out as different, and then he'd noticed those ridiculous pigtails and those curious green eyes and he'd recognised her. And he'd worried he'd make a mistake in front of her.
"What was that? That… um… faltering thing you did with the notes?"
"Legato," he said, and smiled. Of course. Maka understood its languid appeal
"It was beautiful. Did you compose that?"
He nodded, "The entire thing. The piano, the drums, the guitar, then just created some lyrics over the top."
"Wow," she breathed. One of those on their own amounted to a lot of work, all four was a feat of virtuosic genius. And then she smirked, "That's a surprise, considering your poetic abilities."
He elbowed her in the ribs, "Hey! I said I'd write you some decent poetry. Don't you believe me?"
She smiled, "Of course not. But right here, you've got an opportunity to dazzle me. Go ahead."
Soul wouldn't admit to how long he had spent stitching words together for his next chance. In his sleepless nights and moments of wakefulness, even in his dreams, he was piecing together his lexical canvas.
"The certainty in your eyes heralds a million empty goodbyes, and somehow still you stay, ever watching, ever feeling. You call me a stranger, and I take your lead, as we stumble through silence upon wretched silence, ever parted, ever damned. Somewhere there will be a truth to be tasted, as it drifts through the air on wings of lies, but it's an ever winter, ever ice. And I wonder if there's an us in the distance, borne on a ship that will never come, leaving us with ever you, ever I."
He paused and shrugged, "Whatever. It sounded a lot better in my head."
"It sounds good out your head too."
Soul looked searchingly at her, "So?"
"So what?"
"Does it, well, do anything?"
"It's pretty, I guess. A little sad, a little yearning," she smiled knowlingly, "Most girls would fall for it, if that's what you're trying to ask."
But not Maka.
