A/N: How long has it been? 8 Months? Too long, I am sorry. I hope this chapter is worth the wait.
Thanks go to ilarual , fabulousanima , makapedia , bendandcurl , and lucyrne for the eyes, and therewithasmile (along with ilarual again) get credit and gratitude for help with the music references.
"You can stop brooding like you're eleven again and talk about it any time, you know," Wes said, eyes on the road as he flipped on a blinker.
Soul stifled a sigh. His brother was driving like a ninety-seven year old grandma in spite of the fact he'd chosen to take their father's Lamborghini over his own SUV for Death only knew what reason. Two days ago, he had driven like a fucking maniac to plant one on the fiancé he'd seen five minutes before and would see later that night, but now Gran would have beaten him in a road race easily, and she was well known for driving ten miles under the speed limit at all times.
His scowl deepening, Soul reached out to turn up the ear splittingly awful electric violin Wes had playing on the radio-still better than listening to his brother's well meaning blather. He knew what he was about, and telling Wes wasn't going to erase the last two days, wasn't going to make shit better, wasn't going to make Soul any less of a fuck up.
Reaching across to click off the radio completely not a minute later, Wes glanced at him with a rare frown. "Aria texted me a few minutes ago. Said when she brought you up, Maka looked like she was about to punch something. Or someone. Wonder why. Wonder what her loving husband did to elicit such a reaction."
"Cut the crap, Wes," Soul finally snapped. "I'm not her loving anything, and you sure as shit know it."
"But you want to be," was his brother's response as he side-eyed him, and there was no teasing, just a statement of bald fact.
Letting out a sigh at that because he didn't care enough to try to hide it just then, Soul bit out, "Doesn't fucking matter what I want, and she's probably never gonna speak to me again after last night, so just-drop it, will you?"
"After last night?" The raised eyebrow was accusatory.
Of course he wouldn't drop it. He was Wes.
Soul wasn't even sure he actually wanted him to at this point-he had no answers, no way to turn back the clock, no way to fix what he'd clearly broken, and he was just desperate enough that advice from Wes was starting to seem like a straw to grasp at the very least. After spending half the night and all of the morning trying to decide what to do, how to spackle over the hole he'd blown wide last night to no good end, he was more than willing to take any lifeline that appeared.
"I-I fucked up, okay?" He stared at his hands because looking at his brother just wasn't an option. "I was being a selfish asshole and I said some shit I shouldn't have-and fuck-I just fucked up. Why do you even care?"
"You really have to ask?" The incredulity in his brother's tone elicited another sigh. The silence between them stretched as Wes left him to fill it, uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, Soul would have appreciated the silence, would have dropped the subject like the flaming bag of shit it was, but he didn't know how to fix this and he'd been trapped in his head for too long already.
So, also uncharacteristically, Soul broke the silence.
"I fucked up," he repeated.
"How?"
Appreciating that his brother's gaze remained firmly on the road, he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd been thinking about this since he stormed downstairs last night like an angry toddler, thinking about it during his fitful attempt at sleep, thinking about it as he finally gave up trying to rest at the ass crack of dawn and penned out a brief note as he inhaled a bowl of cereal, thinking about it as he cornered his brother offering his services for any last minute wedding needs, thinking about it as they drove wherever it was Wes was going.
He had only been able to reach one conclusion:
He'd fucked up.
Like a hurt, spoiled child who couldn't see past his own selfishness, he'd taken out his frustrations on the last person who deserved them.
So he'd gotten his signals crossed. So he'd been drunk and deluded himself into thinking that she'd been into it, that she'd wanted him like he wanted her. So he'd been utterly stunned when one moment they'd been kissing each other fiercely, his entire being on fire for her, only to be pushed away the next, rejected, ignored.
So it had only been an act for her, part of the idiot show, while for him it had been achingly real.
Still, Maka had only done what he'd asked of her, cared enough for him to do as he'd asked of her.
Was it her fault that for a short time he was convinced that it was real for her, too?
Was it her fault that finding out it wasn't had nearly torn his soul asunder?
Was it her fault that he had soared too high on hope and her, wax wings that had doomed him to crash and burn?
It had only to taken him a day to get over himself and see things clearly, to stop being a hurt little dumbfuck and recognize the bigger picture.
To blame her for playing along in spite of her feelings was petty and absurd. He was petty and absurd, had acted like a complete shit while drowning in self-pity, and now Soul had only himself to blame that she probably never wanted to speak to him again. After what he'd said to her last night, he'd be damn lucky if she didn't pack her bags and dissolve their partnership the moment she woke up.
He checked his phone again to again find no message from her and sighed. Before Wes had shaken him from the delusion, he had hoped she wasn't awake yet. But no, she was Maka, she was definitely awake.
Letting out a long breath, he tried to decide what to tell Wes.
"I-" He attacked the back of his neck; he had never been good at talking about the shit that really mattered. "Okay, you remember the other night at the club? I was an idiot and I thought she was into it when she wasn't and-shit-when she cut it off I was-fuck, it's stupid, but it hurt. I just-I really thought-and fuck-" he cradled his head in his hands.
"So you fought?" Soul could hear the careful neutrality in his brother's tone.
"Not then, no. Not really. But I was a dick all yesterday, because I clearly can't manage my own shit, and last night she called me out on it and-I said shit." He was fisting his jeans, eyes on his hands now.
"You said?"
"Fuck, I basically-you know, it doesn't even matter. I said shit I knew would hurt her and it did and now she probably hates me. Some fucking weapon I am."
Wes sighed as he pulled over in front of a little coffee shop in a town Soul didn't recognize. He turned to face his younger brother, who was still looking pointedly at his own hands.
"I really doubt she hates you." Soul ventured a glance at him and had to look away from keen mahogany eyes. "She's clearly-and it would seem-rightfully angry with you, but if she hated you, she would be on a plane, not agreeing to run errands with my soon to be wife."
"So she's staying." He tried and failed to keep the relief from his voice.
"I believe we just established that." Wes looked down at his own phone for a moment and rattled off a quick text. "Come on." He shut off the car and unbuckled. "I'll buy you breakfast. This place makes the best coffee."
Soul got out, his earlier bowl of cereal no deterrent to a warm meal. He could use the distraction of eating.
The brothers were seated upon entry, perused menus in silence, and ordered oversized platters along with coffee all with no further conversation. But as the waitress flounced away after heavily flirting with them both as they rattled off orders, Wes shook his head and caught his brother's eye.
"Okay, I'll level with you. If you know you fucked up, you actually have a chance to fix it. Maka seems like a reasonable girl. Tell her the truth, and-"
"Maka-reasonable?" Soul balked immediately. "You've never her seen her angry. She's the soul of reason most of the time, sure. When she's pissed though? You'd have an easier time reasoning with the fucking Kishin."
"You know her better than I do-but I can't help but to feel that you may have crossed wires on this. Did she tell you she wasn't interested?"
His scoff this time was audible, coming deep from within his throat. "She didn't have to! She pushed off of me like I was some sort of creep, like she couldn't fucking wait to get aw-"
"And isn't it possible she was just concerned about your mutual state of intoxication?"
"I-" he blinked in shock, shook his head "-no, Maka would have just said that."
"If you say so. Again, you know her best. But even if you're right and she's simply uninterested, that still leaves you needing to clear the air. You owe her an explanation and an apology if you truly wish to mend fences."
His sigh at that was loud and long because it was the conclusion he'd been avoiding coming to all along.
He'd screwed things up, had pried into the chink in her armor with poisoned claws in his hurt, and now he had to make it better; Wes was right, explaining was the best, the only way. Yet, how could he convey why he was so hurt without conveying everything? How could he make her understand, make her see, without her seeing all? Because that was the real trouble. She had pushed him away-she didn't share his feelings, and if she knew the truth she would run screaming even faster, wouldn't she?
Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe he had to lay it all on the line to clear the air. Maybe he had to bare his entire soul to have any chance to salvage their partnership after last night. He had crossed a line, and he was afraid, so damned afraid, that it couldn't be uncrossed.
They had a better chance of getting through his pathetic one-sided feelings for her than what she could only see now as pointless cruelty and betrayal.
Or maybe they could just forget about last night and he could try to make it up to her someway. That would be nice-but he knew a new book and a smile wasn't going to fix this, not when he'd cut so deep. Maka didn't hold grudges exactly, that wasn't her, but when she was truly hurt, getting over it was neither quick nor clean for her.
Death he'd fucked up.
Wes was looking at him expectantly, but he was no closer to an answer.
"I don't know what to tell her," Soul finally admitted. "If I tell her the truth, it might just make it worse."
The waitress mercifully interrupted then, pouring them both their coffees before bouncing away again. Soul took his cup black, foregoing the mountain of cream and sugar he would normally indulge in. The bitter taste suited his mood, and he let it sit on his tongue, scalding, insufficient penance for his heavy sins.
"I'm not sure what else you can do at this point," Wes said after doctoring his own coffee to his liking, with plenty of cream and maple syrup mixed in. "From what you've said of her, she will need to know why before she can forgive, and she'll know if you're lying. I know words aren't your strong suit, brother, but it's not like you can music your way out of this one. Which reminds me!" He snapped his fingers. "Mom really wants you to play tonight and-"
His epiphany was so sudden it felt like a thunderclap. "You-are a genius!" Soul cut him off, grinning.
Wes merely blinked at him like he had lost his shit and maybe he had, but he'd take the shot in the dark he'd been so desperately floundering for since it was the only one he had. "I realize I'm the brains of the two of us," Wes finally managed, "but what-"
"I'll play," Soul cut him off again. "Tell mom I want to go first, opening act. Got just the thing."
His grin was nearly maniacal, causing the waitress to glance his way nervously as she set down a heaping stack of hot cakes in front of him. He slathered the plate in syrup and took an oversized bite as his brother stared down his own omelet, clearly confused.
"So," Wes finally said, tapping his fork against his plate. "You want to play and-you're happy about it?"
Soul shrugged, chewing because his mouth was too full of hot cake to answer.
"What about your problem with Maka?"
Swallowing, the younger Evans looked to his brother. "I don't want to play, but I need to play for her. I think-'musicing' is the only way out, I guess." Wes looked skeptical, and Soul couldn't help but feel defensive. "Look, I'm shit with words and we both know it, but even though Maka is shit with music, she gets me, and I've always been able to tell her things better playing than I ever could talking."
"So your answer is to play for her."
"My answer is to play for her."
Wes pinched the bridge of his nose and let out his own sigh. "I really think you should just tell her the truth."
"That's what the song's for." He shoveled in another bite.
"If you say so." His shrug spoke volumes about his skepticism over this plan, but that he didn't say more was, perhaps, his own way of being supportive, and Soul appreciated the gesture.
He was about to take another bite when Wes cleared his throat. "I wouldn't," he said casually, eyeing his phone.
Thirty seconds later, they were greeted by the whirlwind that was his meister as she breezed up to their table, wide green eyes blinking down at him in something like fury. She turned a hundred watt smile on Wes.
"Mind if I borrow your brother for a minute?"
"Not at all," he waved an absent hand and Soul quickly found himself hauled up and through the coffee shop doors.
They passed Aria on the way out, and Maka said casually, "I'll just be a minute-meet me outside?"
Aria nodded, said a brief hello to a still confused Soul, and then they were down the sidewalk and standing in the little alley to one side of the building.
"This is your fault, you know," she spat out, hands on hips. He blinked down at her dumbly.
"What?" he finally managed after a moment of enduring her angry glare.
"Aria kept asking questions. She's worried, and I don't want her to be worried about us of all things the day before her wedding, so just-make it look good-"
Before Soul could question further, she backed him against the wall and tugged him down by the hair into a searing kiss. To say he was confused was an understatement, but somehow his hands found her hips as her tongue found the inside of his mouth, sliding against his own tongue greedily. Her lips were just as greedy, insistent, and her soul was on fire, her rage threatening to incinerate them both. It was hard to think straight with her kissing him like that, his head spinning as she pressed herself closer.
He heard footsteps that only added to his confusion, heard a voice call his meister's name, and then small hands were pushing at his chest, robbing him of her heat as Aria stood at the mouth of the alley.
"I'm so sorry, I'll just-" Aria looked surprised for the first time Soul could remember, not that he'd known her long.
He felt pretty stunned himself.
"No, it's fine, we're done here," his meister assured the other woman, moving up to kiss his cheek in a blatant show before hurrying off. "See you later, sweetie," she said lightly after moving next to Aria. The fire lingering in her soul belied the lightness of her tone.
"Yeah, uh, later," he managed, still reeling.
He thought he might now understand how she had felt that day in the gift shop. His world felt completely tilted on its axis. She had screamed at him the night before and now she was kissing him-like that? But no-she probably had been repulsed that day, and he was reeling for different reasons, her touch leaving him both addled and breathless.
And Maka? She was clearly still angry. But she was also playing her part, so did that mean she cared enough about him to maintain the ruse, even angry?
Of course she did. She was Maka and he was stupid and he should have known better than to think his angry words could break her so easily.
He still needed to fix this, but suddenly he thought maybe he actually could. He'd take whatever chance he could get.
At least now he had a plan.
Still in a daze, Soul returned to his brother and his pancakes, ignoring Wes's too knowing grin as he contemplated the music that was his only hope.
The next few hours were a blur. Wes left him alone about Maka once he said he had it handled, but that didn't mean Soul wasn't still stuck as an errand companion. They went to a final fitting for Soul's suit for the rehearsal and tux for the wedding and picked those up, stopped into the house of a friend of Wes's who was heading up the music so Wes could finalize the set list, and finally visited a very exclusive jeweler who dealt largely in original pieces and antiques. While Wes was picking up a gift for his new wife, Soul browsed idly, wondering if Maka would like any of these things. Most were so laden with heavy gems he knew she would balk, but his eyes settled on a simple, vintage strand of pearls that he thought she might not hate.
"You could get her something, you know. Mom would probably be thrilled for you to use the platinum card for a gift for your wife."
"Nah, Maka isn't really into jewelry," he dismissed the thought immediately.
"Ah, but she'll need something to wear to the wedding," Wes said, ending his statement with a thoughtful hum. "Whatever she had planned may not work with her bridesmaid dress. Aside from which, a gift certainly couldn't hurt your cause."
Soul was about to suggest Maka wasn't the type of person whose forgiveness could be bought when his mind clamped onto something else.
"Wait, bridesmaid dress? What the fuck are you even talking about?"
"She didn't tell you?" Wes looked genuinely surprised. "Aria asked her yesterday morning. They picked her a dress at the salon when they went to fit the other bridesmaids."
"Shit," he hissed. "How could you let her?"
"Wasn't really my call." Wes shrugged.
"I just-" he shook his head but didn't say anything else for a moment. He was surprised she'd said yes, even more surprised she hadn't said a damn thing, yet he could well imagine Maka feeling like she couldn't say no. "It's your wedding photos, I guess," Soul finished with a shrug.
"Aria wanted Maka to be a part of this, and I really don't object to my future sister in law being there, so-"
"I've already told you we aren't-"
"Like that, yes, yes." Wes waved a dismissive hand. "Are you going to get her something? The dress is royal blue and white. Seems like those pearls you keep staring at would work."
The pearls would cost many, many months salary for them. They were lovely. Fuck, he'd endured this hell and so had she; his parents could fund something nice for her, even if she hated it. Even if she hated him.
"Sure, why not. Couldn't hurt."
"It really couldn't." Wes waved over the attendant and purchased the pearls, having them boxed and wrapped. Soul sighed as he took the bag. Buying his meister outrageously expensive antique pearls on his parents' dime reeked of his desperation. This really had all gone to shit, and he had no one to blame but himself.
"Now can we get home or what?" he snapped as they got in the car.
"Sure, I'm done." Wes started the car, glancing his way with an overly amused smile. "And I'm guessing you need to get ready for the big show."
With another sigh, Soul closed his eyes and let the feeling of movement lull him as they made their way back to the ninth circle of hell.
Being back in the main music room on his parent's estate dredged up memories that he'd just as soon shove down again. It was pristine, cream and white tile, lush blue velvet curtains, perfect acoustics. There was a large, beautifully crafted grand piano to one side, the same instrument he'd spent countless hours practicing on as a child. To sit there now, he felt small again, insignificant, not good enough by half.
Sit straighter, your wrists are wrong, stop fidgeting, why must you always play so somberly? Listen to your brother, try to follow his lead.
He opened the fall board and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. Soul wasn't that child anymore. He was a grown man, a death scythe, and he was here to finally show courage, to admit his faults, to let his meister know the truth, to try to make up for the words he hadn't meant. He could conquer this room, conquer his memories, and play the song that had been in his heart for years.
No, wrong again! You will practice until it's right. This is Debussy not Berg. You are an Evans, time to show it. Why can't you be more like your brother?
The song of his past took him, the song he had played her when they met. The song that used to be him, that was still a part of who he was. His fingers flew over the keys, faster and faster, reaching a crescendo, cathartic. This was still a part of him, yes, but it wasn't all of him.
It was his past, but he needed to play the song of his present and of his future, needed to make it perfect if he was going to make her see.
Not expecting the clearing throat and footsteps as he finally finished, Soul's neck whipped around to meet the approach of his father.
The man was dressed in a suit as he typically was in his son's memories, looking as stern as ever. "I see you still favor those dark pieces," he said, tone neutral. "Still, there are those who enjoy such things. Your skills remain passable. I've no doubt with some intensive practice and our family influence that Julliard will take you."
Turning back to the piano, Soul choose to play rather than answer for a moment, Moonlight Sonata flowing from his fingertips with ease. He needed to find composure lest he scream years of pain at his father; he didn't want that, only wanted to fix things with Maka and put this all behind him.
"I'm not going to Julliard, I told you," he said evenly as he continued to stroke the keys, letting the notes wash over him, soothe him, calm him.
"Your mother and I allowed all that DWMA foolishness because you needed to learn to control this-anomaly-but I believe we've allowed it long enough."
Soul turned his head to meet his father's cold stare. Allowed? Bullshit. Weapons gained emancipation by enrolling at the DWMA. They'd never had a fucking choice. "Anomaly? I'm a death scythe, dad. Do you understand what that-"
"Music was always in your future," his father cut him off, "that's what we raised you for. Not to be some lackey for the so-called Death God. You and your wife will both-"
"Leave Maka out of this." His voice was deceptively soft.
"She's an Evans now, you saw to that. Music is her legacy as well." His father's own blank facade was flawless.
"She's a Death Meister, the daughter of a Death Meister and the current head Death Scythe. That's our legacy."
"Not yours."
"No." Soul grinned sharply. "I'm her legacy and I'm cool with that." His fingers stopped moving along the keys. "Julliard is your legacy, and I'm not interested."
"And you'd give up your place in this family, your inheritance, to what-" he waved a dismissive hand, his facade cracking "-fight monsters? Absurd. You're better than that."
"No, Dad, I'm better than this." He stood suddenly and swept his hands to the sides. "Than all of this. Maka helped make me better than this. I left it all behind years ago-I don't want it."
"You don't know what you want." His father's fists were clenched, voice tight. He seemed about to say more when he turned his head to the sound of Soul's mother walking across the pristine marble to place a hand on her husband's shoulder. She looked as put together as ever in her designer day dress. Her face did not.
"Alastair," she said, voice pleading.
"Sophia." His voice dropped, features going soft. "I know how hard this has been on you. He needs to see reason-"
"I need to see reason? I'm not the one trying to control your life. For seven years you never even tried to-" He shook his head. The sheer presumption that they had a say after so long, after they hadn't even tried to reach out? This-this was why he'd left.
"We thought-we thought that's what you wanted." It was Sophia who spoke. "We thought you'd come to us when you were ready. We all did. We made sure you had the account, had the money you needed." It was her turn to shake her head and Soul had never seen his mother look so pained.
"I never touched it." His anger drained. "I don't need your money. And I won't be going to Julliard."
"You don't have to go to Julliard-"
"Sophia," Alastair's voice was quiet.
"No, Alastair." The plea in her voice, in her eyes, it made Soul feel sick and warm, to see his mother's carefully crafted composure crack. "This is why we haven't seen him in seven years; I won't lose my son for another seven. Please."
The sigh was heavy and laden with frustration. Alastair gave a small nod. "You deal with him then, I'm done."
Soul's father left the room then, and Soul was suddenly alone with his mother for the first time since he'd run away.
"Mom, I-" He felt so lost himself. First Maka, and now this. He was drowning.
"We just want you to be happy, Soul. We love you-your father too-and we just want-want what's best for you, you understand?"
His mother looked so fragile suddenly and she never looked fragile. It broke him.
"I know, Mom. I do. But the DWMA, being a death scythe, it is what's best for me."
Sophia nodded. "I know," she said softly. "You've grown up so much-so much--and I may not understand your life now, but I want to. I want you to be a part of this family again, please?"
He swallowed, nodded. "Yeah I'd-I'd like that, too."
Her smile at that was wide and genuine, her composure returning as quickly as it had fled. "Well, then! Your brother said you've agreed to play for the rehearsal dinner tonight, I'm so glad. You must need to practice, yes?"
"I-yeah." He nodded, hand gravitating to the back of his neck out of sheer nervous habit.
"I'll leave you then-so much to do! But I'm really looking forward to it, dear." Her smile didn't waver as she bustled away and out the door, shutting it behind her.
Soul blinked after her, still stunned by the exchange with his parents and not sure how to feel about it. His emotions had been pummeled so thoroughly the past few days he felt absolutely numb, yet he had to pull it together if he was going to fix things with Maka.
Letting out a long breath, he shuffled to sit back at the piano and tried to practice their song.
When they'd picked up his suit, Soul insisted on a red dress shirt beneath the pinstripes, hoping to remind Maka of their connection, of how far they'd come together, of everything they had accomplished. He felt strange in it, but it was right too, this echo of his soul made flesh.
Glancing in the mirror one last time, he decided he was as ready as he was likely to be. They'd already seen each other at the rehearsal but had little opportunity to talk, and Maka had been abnormally quiet. Now was his chance, to speak from the soul, to speak through his music. Trying to put the turmoil of the day out of his mind-his parents, Maka, everything-Soul walked out of the small tent that was acting as a makeshift green room as he heard his brother introduce him, and strode to the baby grand that had been set up for him to play.
Soul knew that the guests had begun to eat their dinner, but that didn't matter. He wasn't playing for them, he was playing for her, the woman standing stiffly just to one side of the stage.
His gaze swept the crowd then settled on his meister. She was little short of stunning in the dress that they had chosen for her to wear to the wedding, a black and white vintage masterpiece that looked as if it had been made for her. He offered a small smile as he said, "This is for you, Maka," and began to play.
Nothing existed but the piano and the music and her.
He played his soul, his story, their story, bound in her strength, fueled by his love. It was a journey, a crawl from darkness to learn to walk in the light, to learn to walk in her light. It was him but it was also her and how she made him feel. It was them. Soul had been writing this song since he met her, and now it would act as his plea. He was sorry. He loved her. He was better for her, because of her. He loved her. Please. Please.
The song ended on a hopeful note, and he played the last keys softly, spent.
Would she understand? Would she accept his apology, accept his song, accept him?
His heart clenched, in fear, in hope. He wanted to run, to hide, terrified of her answer. This was a mistake. Would she push him away again, knowing his heart? Would this break them or make them stronger?
He hoped it would make them stronger. He quelled his fear-she was better than him, so much better, better than to hold onto such anger for long. Even if she didn't share his feelings, he hoped they could still move past them, could still be partners as they had been for so long. He could accept that. What he couldn't accept was losing her completely.
His fear lingered still, paralyzing. The applause washed over him like so much static.
That she met him as he left the stage couldn't surprise him. That she looked stunned told him little. Then her face broke out into the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile he had ever seen and his heart soared.
"Soul," she breathed, facing him, looking up to meet his gaze. "That was beautiful."
Maybe she understood. She seemed to have forgiven him. He felt his pulse quicken. "Uh, thanks, I-"
"It was about you, right? About how far you've come? I know this hasn't been easy. I'm proud of you."
"Yeah, thanks." He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice because she hadn't understood. "I-I'm sorry. For everything."
Her smile wavered, looked just a little broken, just a little sad. "I know, me too."
Then she took his hand, firmly, warmly, and pulled him away from the stage. Her hand in his was like a balm, and he was so relieved that she forgave him. And yet-
Maka forgave him, but she didn't understand at all.
She didn't know, still didn't know how much he loved her, what she meant to him. Everything. Everything. Maybe his song had done as he needed it to, but it felt utterly empty because Maka didn't understand it, still didn't know his heart.
She forgave him, but it didn't mean that she accepted him, accepted them.
It didn't mean they could move forward, only that they could go back.
