(A/N: this is a sort of song fic based off of the song "Holland, 1945" by Neutral Milk Hotel. I listened to it one day and immediately thought of Soul, so I wrote a fic about it! Please listen to the song, it will help you understand this a little better. It's a sad song, but happy at the same time. If that makes any sense. Miss Fu, your birthday present is coming up! Enjoy, guys!)
Holland, 1945
Maka became a piano teacher after Soul died. He had taught her enough of it in the many, many years they had spent together. She was frail and old now and Soul had been gone for a good seven years, peaking on his eighth. Maka had come to terms with his passing, for she was a strong woman and she could live on like she knew Soul would have wanted her to. Sometimes, she would lie in her bed at night and think of him and all the years they spent as partners, then as lovers, then as husband and wife. She loved his shark teeth and his eyes that were the color of rose petals...
They were long retired when Soul passed away. He was 85 and she 84 and he had been sleeping on his favorite arm chair while Maka tended to the garden. Their cat was curled in his lap and there were pictures of their many children and grandchildren scattered about. Nothing had really changed about Soul. He still had his silvery hair and crimson eyes, so bright with life that it came as a shock even to him when he felt death take him. He didn't want to leave, for he loved Maka with his entire being and leaving her alone would be like ripping his own heart out. But she was a strong woman and he knew it, even as he felt himself slip away.
Now, Maka was living in Spain—a place that she had felt herself being drawn to a few months after Soul's death. She had scraped up a small job as a piano teacher for children, teaching afternoon classes to boys and girls of all ages. She carried on like this for the seven (almost eight) years since the day Soul left. And she enjoyed her job. It kept a little bit of Soul alive within her and her students.
Until one day...
The little boy had black hair and blue eyes, not snowy hair and red eyes. He was cute and fragile looking, not hardened by years of labor. He was polite, not sarcastic and teasing. But his smile was different. It quirked up at the corners in a wide grin like the smile she so fondly remembered. No, his mouth wasn't full of razor sharp teeth, and no, there wasn't any drool involved. But for a moment, she swore she saw roses in his eyes. He sat down on the piano bench to begin their lesson and Maka lead him in a beginner's tune, careful of his tiny fingers that were long and elegant just like the ones her fingers used to entwine with. He picked it up quickly, his crooked grin evident on his face as he smashed the keys and added his own spin on things and it was all so familiar. He was at least seven (almost eight) and there were little, tiny, almost invisible things that Maka noticed. Little things that made her want to cry.
"Did I do good, Mrs. Evans?" The little boy grinned.
"Yes, you did," Maka said softly.
"Great! 'Cause only cool guys can play the piano like me!"
Maka started crying, then.