A/N: I do not own Soul Eater or 'Amsterdam' by Imagine Dragons.
I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE. Ugh, I suck. I've been really busy with running community events for my region regarding Australia Day and then the reboot of schooling and work lately, but I was planning to update last week . . . and then Mother Nature stepped in and said "Lol nope." I don't know if you've seen anything about it, but Australia has kind of turned into a complete disaster zone. I've been copping flooding and a cyclone, and then there's bushfires and a heat wave and it's been a bit of a hectic week, not to say month with this heat.
Also, the Australian Open was on and it becomes my life until it ends. Federer FTW. But as everything's all passed, I'm determined to update.
Also, I wasn't offended with the response to #27, don't worry! I was just saying sorry for killing people and making sure you know I won't pull another fast one on you again and off them! Smileyface.
WARNING: Absolute abuse of Soul's ever-mysterious backstory with his family yet again. There's no canon for it, really, so I change how I write it almost every time. Also, lots of swearing - it was used to create the contrast between the manners of Soul and of Wes.
So, enjoy.
TWENTY-NINE – WAIT FOR IT
I'm sorry, brother; I'm sorry I let you down.
Well these days you're fine,
And these days you tend to lie.
- 'Amsterdam', Imagine Dragons.
Soul 'Eater' Evans was content with life right up until the day after his eighteenth birthday.
Really, he was happy enough – for his constantly-sour mood, anyway. His Death Scythe training was hurting like a bitch and he was in wonder regarding the success Maka's dumb ass father had apparently had in it, but it meant that he was getting better at using his Black Blood without slipping into insanity by the day. He could use the witch-fuelled power in his veins to patch up any life-threatening wounds his meister received in battle as long as they were resonating, and he could do far cooler things with his demonic keyboard than shoot out a few little warbling notes. His friends were all coming along well in their own individual areas of success, too – Kid was shaping up to be just as good a leader as his father, and Black*Star was becoming less human every time he saw him. The guy could glow now if he focussed hard enough.
The missions he took on were of a different calibre, seeing as they were a three-star team and there was no longer any Kishin Asura to fight or Crona to locate. Maka was excelling in her studies to the point that she might soon qualify to teach certain areas of schooling to the NOT class within half a year, and she'd managed to beat Kilik in Combat class last week with a time of twenty-five seconds. He and his meister were almost ostentatiously drifting closer to the barrier between friends and so-more-than-friends every day, and although he was still too shit-scared to do anything about it, at least it was progress. So yeah, life was going pretty great.
And then he was woken up at seven on Saturday morning by the sound of someone knocking at the door. He wanted to pretend that there was something in his stomach telling him not to get out of bed, not to answer and let the knocker in, but it was the freaking weekend and he was tired as Hell. Black*Star had insisted on a big party for him last night, and he still hadn't quite recovered from the sounds of shitty electronic music and the sight of said blue-haired meister trying to play Twister after two bottles of vodka and Death knew how many beers. Patti had ended up knocking him out, and Soul was pretty sure that Black*Star would still be at the Gallows mansion at the moment, sleeping off the after effects of his own drunken idiocy.
Speaking of which, he should still be sleeping right now. Who the fuck was knocking at their door at seven in the morning? Grumpily and drowsily, he kicked his blankets off of his legs and stretched them out, trying to yawn and cuss under his breath at the same time. Without bothering to put on a shirt and only briefly running a hand through his messy hair, he stalked – quietly, because Maka was still asleep and if he woke her he'd be a dead pile of weapon on the carpet within seconds, but angrily nonetheless – over to the front door, ensured that his scowl wasn't going to be scary enough to kill whoever was intruding on his precious Saturday sleep, decided that he didn't care, and then threw the door open, his mouth half open to enquire what could possibly be so important at this hour. "What the Hell . . ."
And then he got a good look at the visitor, and everything turned to shit.
"What the Hell?" he repeated for the second time. Had he said it a first time? It felt like it, but his brain was still too addled to tell. For he couldn't be seeing what he thought he was seeing, could he? He couldn't actually be here, standing in the door frame with a half-smile and a wrapped box underneath his arm, could he?
And yet he was, because the man gave a short laugh and removed his coat, brushing off light raindrops as he spoke with a cultured and smooth voice that was both so familiar and so foreign at the same time. "Six years away from the life of the aristocrat and that's how you answer the door? Then again, I guess you were never one for formality, were you?"
"What the Hell . . . Wes?"
"Happy birthday, little brother."
"Two –"
"Two and a half sugars, tiny amount of milk. I know."
"I didn't think you'd remember," Wes said softly, but his voice was neutral and affable as usual as he glanced around him. Soul could practically feel his brother's curiosity pouring off of him in waves of expensive cologne and crisp casual suits. "I like your apartment."
Soul rolled his eyes as he brought over the steaming cup of tea. His brother didn't drink coffee until after ten in the morning, and he didn't like it unless it was from ground beans and caramel flavoured, so tea it was. It was funny – six years, and he hadn't forgotten a single habit of the older Evans boy's. "You probably think it's the size of a closet, considering your big-ass mansion out in Colorado that you've just bought. Oh yeah," he added at Wes's surprised glance, "don't think I didn't hear about that."
"Been keeping tabs on me, little brother?" Wes asked, taking a sip of his tea and leaning back. He didn't put his feet on the coffee table like Soul would, and he didn't sag over the couch as if he were a sack of potatoes despite the early hour. No, this wasn't a normal person. This was a young man of excellent breeding and civil aristocratic manners, who just happened to be related to him by blood. They were barely alike anymore. Death, Soul thought, my blood's changed so much that we're barely even 'blood relatives' anymore. "Or should I say, 'big brother'? You've certainly grown."
"You callin' me fat?"
"You were twelve the last time I saw you; it's safe to say that your height might have been what I was noticing, not your weight." Wes trailed off for a moment thoughtfully. "You know, you look an awful lot like I did when I was your age."
The tension in the air was practically tangible. Wes was throwing around words like he would grains of rice at a wedding – appearing happy, carefree and glad to be where he was, with Soul. But the underlying message in his words was what the weapon was picking up on, and that was the fact that it had truly been so long since they'd seen each other that neither looked the same nor acted the same as the person the other knew before. His older brother wasn't much different, despite the fact that his jaw could probably cut diamonds now and his blue eyes, his square shoulders and his straight back were so much more adult than they had been the last time the two had met. Soul, however, was pretty sure that he must look like a stranger with the same hair colour and eyes as a kid Wes once knew.
" . . . So, is it all right if I ask, or is that impolite? Are you okay with talking about it, or . . . ?" The young man asked suddenly, his air becoming more delicate and hesitant. He was looking down into his cup, but Soul could tell that he was tense all of a sudden by the way his left shoulder raised. Nervous tics never quite went away.
It took him a moment of nostalgic reminiscing to realise he hadn't answered his brother's question yet, and he also had no idea what it was about. "Huh?"
"You know," Wes muttered. "The . . . that scar."
What's he on ab – oh. Soul looked down to his still-bare chest and eyed the diagonal scar running from his hip to his shoulder with a furrowed brow. "That happened almost five years ago, Wes."
"What? What happened?"
"We fucked up in a fight with – with an opponent, and I got hurt. Nearly died, actually."
Wes looked like he was about to drop his cup in shock, and refrained from doing so only by placing it on the table before he fell back against the couch. "You – you could have died, and nobody told us?" His tone sounded weak.
"I'm a Death Scythe, you idiot," he hissed, feeling his temper rising at his brother's accusation. "There's a possibility that I could get killed nearly every single weekend! What did you think we did here, sat down and held hands around a campfire?" And now we're springboard diving off the deep-end of safe conversation into dangerous waters.
"But . . . but why didn't you tell us you got hurt? Don't we deserve to know?" Wes shot back, leaning forward with all traces of his pleasant, high-class attitude disappearing. He sounded betrayed now. Soul didn't remember his brother ever being like this, but then again, he had been a little kid the last time they'd met. He wasn't anymore. "Don't you think we would have cared?"
"Frankly? No, I fucking don't! Where the Hell have you guys been in the last six years, to show that you would have given a shit if I got killed out on the field? Why are you even here now?"
"I came to wish you a happy birthday!"
"My birthday was yesterday!"
Wes opened his mouth to reply, looking a strange mixture of hurt and angry, but before either of the Evans boys could get another word out, Soul heard the sound of a door opening and dragging footsteps. He flinched, spinning around and knowing already what he would see. Shit. This was just getting worse.
"Soul?" Maka murmured sleepily, rubbing at her left eye and yawning widely. She was still dressed in her sleep shorts and one of his old shirts, and she didn't appear completely awake yet. "Who're you yelling at so early in the morning?"
Okay, technically what she said was more along the lines of, "Who'reyelmormnng?", but he could translate her garbled speech easily enough. She frowned tiredly, looking so adorable that she almost distracted him from his current predicament.
Almost.
"Uh – just someone who came to wish me Happy Birthday. Don't worry about it, go back to sleep. We'll be quieter."
He'd said all this in a rush, trying to prevent her from coming into the lounge room properly and getting a good look at his brother, but it was too late; Wes had been intrigued at the sound of her voice, and he'd moved from his safe position on the end of the sofa to see who he was talking to. Consequentially, she'd seen him. Soul watched as confusion spread over his meister's face for a few seconds, because there were what looked like two different versions of Soul on the couch and it was too early in the morning to deal with this shit, but then she seemed to realise that there was someone besides one of their friends in the house, and she was stumbling over her words while in her pyjamas.
If there was one thing she hated, it was looking unprofessional in front of a stranger, no matter the occasion.
"Ah – sorry!" she exclaimed, flushing and trying to brush her mussed hair away from her face. "I didn't realise you were expecting people over?"
"Oh, I wasn't," Soul replied, turning back to glare at Wes, but Maka didn't catch it. She'd already made another quick apology and disappeared back to her room to no-doubt fix her hair and dress herself in something other than an Iron-Man shirt. "Fuck, now you're gonna' have to meet her. It's too early for this shit."
"When did you start swearing so much?" Wes said weakly, but he'd sat back down again. There was a strained smile on his face, and really, Soul had to give him points for trying. "You would have never spoken like that around Mother and Father."
"You ever seen a dead body? It kinda' changes your perception on what's bad and what ain't," he replied, but he sat down too, trying to show that he would be more peaceful. After all, he loved Wes. He was just confused as to why he was here, and mad that he was here. Not to say that he hadn't missed him – but why now?
" . . . Well, I have to say, she's definitely a pretty girl. If you don't mind me saying so, that is. Good for you," the older man said, picking up his cup once more. He was definitely smiling now, that infamous smirk that the both of them were known for.
"Uh – thanks?"
Wes merely took a long sip of his tea. "I'm sorry I lost my temper back there. It wasn't right, and there are a lot of things that I don't understand about the type of lifestyle you lead. In fact, that's why I'm here . . . I'm still your brother, Soul. I want to know how you are, what you're doing."
He scoffed, but relaxed, saying, "Well, I'm still alive, and that's a feat in itself. And it's cool; I probably shoulda' explained my scar better instead of blowing up at you."
He thought his words perfectly normal, if not a little brisk, but his brother turned to stare at him in wonder. Soul moved his shoulders uncomfortably. What was the problem now? "Is everything okay?"
"It's like you're a completely different person," Wes marvelled, speaking Soul's exact earlier thoughts. "What happened to the solemn and grumpy little boy who didn't want to say he was wrong?"
"He learned what it's like to get a book slammed into your skull with no warning whatsoever," he replied with a grin. "And I know I'm different to what you remember, but what did you really expect?"
"I don't know. I mean, obviously I thought you'd be more grown up, but the way you act and the way you sit is just . . . not you. And to think, you're living in a completely self-cleaned apartment and cooking for yourself, and the one time that I come over, you have a girl here . . ."
"Hold up, what?"
Wes was about to reply when he suddenly paused, glancing around the living room once more and evidently noticing the more feminine touches – the girl's coat draped over the back chair in the kitchen, the photo frames on a shelf lined with books, the magazine sitting on the table . . . "Soul – does your girlfriend live with you?"
"What?"
It was at that moment that Maka re-emerged from her room, wearing jeans and a black shirt with her hair brushed and looking civilised. She was still slightly pink in the cheeks as she made her way back out to the kitchen to get some juice. "Sorry about before – like I said, I didn't know there'd be anyone over. I'm Maka, by the way." She faced Wes with a smile that the older man returned with well-concealed surprise.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Maka. My name is Wesley Evans," he replied, and Soul rolled his eyes yet again at the formal and upper-class behaviour his brother instantly slipped into when meeting new people. All smiles and good impressions and polite laughs. He even nodded his head, respectful and pleasant.
Maka, by comparison, looked thunderstruck. The juice bottle slipped from her hand onto the bench and she stared first at Wes and then at Soul and then back again with wide eyes. Her mouth was a small pink 'O', and the Death Scythe felt like laughing for a second at her completely bewildered expression. But before he could comment, she was suddenly glaring at him with narrowed eyes which seemed to sparkle with the fire of Hell itself. "Soul, could I talk to you in the kitchen for a second?"
Aw, fuck. He was in for it now.
"No," he shot back with his palms up defensively. "That's where the knives are, and you look like you're gonna' try and stab me. Again. Besides, I didn't know he was coming until he rocked up on the doorstep this morning!"
"Er," Wes tried to interject, looking slightly confused and awkward, but Maka was already shooting back a reply.
"Why didn't you tell me your brother was here? That is your brother, isn't it? How long has he been here, while you've left me sleeping in my room?"
"Only, like, fifteen minutes. And what the fuck was I supposed to do? Have you ever tried waking you up?"
" . . . Did she just call me an 'it'?"
"That doesn't even make sense, Soul! You should have let me know, or something! Are your parents coming over, too?"
"No, they –" A sudden fear gripped him and he spun to grab Wes by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Tell me Mom and Dad aren't coming."
"They're in Toronto at the moment!"
"See, they're in Toronto!" Soul said with relief, turning back to Maka. "If I didn't know that, how would I know that Wes was coming to visit?"
"Because you're an ass, and you wouldn't tell me on purpose! That's why!"
"Why in Death's name would I do something like that? Now you aren't making sense, you crazy woman!"
" 'In Deaths name'? What does that mean?"
He sighed exasperatedly, facing his brother again. "It's what we say instead of 'God', because our ruler is a Shinigami."
"The Death God? He actually dwells among people? Have you ever actually met him?" he replied in awe. Their lives really were different outside of Death City.
"Yeah, actually, he's one of my best friends."
"Truly? Has your girlfriend met him too, or are you special because you're a Death Scythe?"
"Why do you keep saying 'girlfriend'? Are you making a joke?"
"No," Wes said in confusion, sounding slightly awkward. "I meant Maka here. Aren't you . . . ?"
"Wh – Death, no! She's my meister, Wes, not my girlfriend!"
His brother clearly knew what the term meant because his expression changed to one of embarrassment immediately. "Oh. I'm sorry. That's your wielder, yes? Your partner?"
"Yeah! Wait, no, don't say it like that. It still sounds wrong."
"I assumed, because she was sleeping here and she was clearly wearing a male's shirt . . . ?"
Soul shook his head quickly, feeling his heart in his throat. If Maka had heard that, he was going to kill Wes. "No. Just no. Maka's my partner, and partners tend to live together. She's not my girlfriend."
"Really? Even though you're both teenagers of different genders and you share a living space?"
"Ye – Fuck!"
Wes trailed off in shock, staring at the scene before him. While Soul had been giving him his attention, the blonde-haired girl had been slowly making her way towards them, a book in her grip. He'd seen her out the corner of his eye, and before he could say anything, the small girl had raised her arm, and with a force that made him grip the couch cushion in sudden fear, she'd smashed it into his younger brother's head so hard that a crack echoed through the living room. She stepped back from Soul's keeled-over body with crossed arms and a glare, putting the book down on the recliner and sitting down beside it.
Had she . . . had she just killed Soul?
Oh, God; was she going to kill him, too? She certainly looked capable of it.
How should he escape? Should he stay to defend his little brother? Could he protect himself, being of weapon blood, or was he already dead?
The Google search he'd done on Death City before departing to see Soul again had not prepared him for this . . .
He felt the couch shift as Soul gave a small grunt of pain, putting his hands to his head and sitting up slowly. Wes's disbelief rose – how did someone survive a blow like that and get back up so quickly? Weapons must have been tough, and they must have received a lot of hits, but something like this was just insane. And yet, his brother was sitting upright now and shaking his head lightly, looking a little dizzy but otherwise fine. He shut one eye and narrowed the other at Maka, the blonde girl.
"Was that really necessary? I told you, I didn't do anything!"
"That doesn't mean I'm not mad at you."
"Great." The younger boy turned back to him with a scowl. "See what you've done now? She's gonna' butcher my ass when you leave."
Wesley Evans was a gentleman. He was raised to be able to deal with any social situation without losing face. People were his forte – he could be pleasant, he was always eloquent, and he always knew the right thing to say and the right way to act in any conversation. And all that Wesley Evans could do at this very moment was sit ramrod-straight with a completely non-composed and slack-jawed expression as he eyed the two teenagers before him.
Surely this couldn't be his brother? This wasn't Soul, there was no way. Sure, he looked like him and to some degree he sounded like him, but that was where the similarities ended. When Soul had left home at age twelve, he'd been quiet and sombre around everyone but Wes himself. He socialised only when completely necessary and even then as little as possible, something that Mother fretted over and Father sighed at. He was rarely open with anybody, and didn't like to draw too much attention to himself, especially when the two of them would practice their music at the same time. He was also a boy who didn't get excited very easily. He was withdrawn and reserved, and it was very hard to tell what he was thinking most of the time because he would address the world with a blank face and a manner very much expressing, 'This is what I have to do, so I'll do it.' Wes couldn't remember the last time he'd truly been energetic about anything.
But here he was, holding his skull and shooting off his mouth at the girl across from him. His tone sounded irritated, but there was something in his posture and the way he was speaking to her . . . Some certain softness, comfortableness that Wes had never seen a trace of in Soul. He'd even been brief and quiet with him as a kid, ever since he was seven years old and mature enough to perceive life for what it was. There was no sort of reserve in the way he addressed Maka, or the flush in his cheeks when she said something smart to shut him up before he made a fool out of himself. She was being fairly stinging, and he wasn't showing his gentlemanly side at all, but he wasn't mad. Wes could tell.
Could it be . . . had his little brother really found somebody to love? He said the two of them weren't dating, but –
"And now I've made a bad first impression," Maka muttered, clearly flustered as she turned to him. "I'm so sorry, truly, I'm not usually like this. I swear."
"Bullshit," Soul scoffed, earning him another book-to-the-head. Wes winced in fear, trying to scramble backwards so as to not receive a hit too. Really, how did Soul get up from that?
Unlike his younger brother, Wes was a bit of a romanticist at heart. He always had been. So it was no wonder that he believed in something like soul-mates, and believed that he was witnessing what happened when two of them found each other right before him as the two began to quarrel yet again, with no saving face.
It's appropriate, I guess, he couldn't help but think, that somebody like Soul would have such a violent and apparently stubborn girl as a soul-mate. Serves him right.
Her words couldn't be more wrong. Wes was pretty sure that despite his aristocratic upbringing and his social interactions with a large number of European and American high-class families, this had to be the best first-impression he'd ever had of anyone.
Because this girl was meant to be a meister, someone who fought with no fear and struck terror in the hearts of her opponents. And boy, was he scared shitless.
"I'm so glad that's over," Soul muttered weakly as he closed the door on Wes. After he and Maka had calmed down and his older brother had finally been convinced that he wasn't about to witness a murder, they'd actually all sat down and had a pretty civilised chat. Wes had talked about how he was looking forward to visiting them more seeing as he lived in Colorado now and wouldn't mind taking the plane for a spin to fly over Death City – yes, his own personal luxury plane, 'for concerts' – and they'd ended up all getting along well.
Maka patted his back comfortingly, smiling. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Actually, no. Then again, I don't think I can take another Maka-Chop today."
"I can't make that promise; it's only nine in the morning. You're just lucky that you don't drink because of your weapon blood, or you would have had to deal with him while you had a hang-over. How do you think Black*Star is at the moment?"
"I don't know," he mused with a smile, "but the mention of that makes me feel so much better."
She laughed, and he felt his tense shoulders drop just that bit more. "Poor Tsubaki will have to deal with him all day. Anyway, what did Wes bring you for your birthday?"
"Uh, you know, just some stuff that they had lying around the house that he thought I might want," Soul replied vaguely, scratching his cheek.
That wasn't technically a lie, but it wasn't the truth. What Wes had brought him was, to his astonishment, a book of all of his old compositions and his favourite pieces. His older brother had apparently kept every one that he could find and put them all together. He'd done his best not to look too affected when he'd opened the box, but his heart had done some sort of weird flop and he'd decided then that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be too bad if Wes did start making himself more present in their lives.
"Want to go out and get some breakfast?" he asked suddenly. "I'm hungry and I won't be able to go back to bed until I eat something."
"Sure," Maka replied with a smile. "But there's just one thing."
"Hm?"
"You might want to actually put on a shirt before we go. Not that I'm judging, but it's not going to be a good look if a Death Scythe turns up at the city heart in nothing but his track pants."
"Crap."
He was just about to get dressed when he heard a hollering voice from the landing of their apartment complex through the door. A female, high voice that sounded very familiar, with a tone that was far too familiar.
"Oh, Soul-kun! You came out to greet Bu-tan after a long night at work! Come here, let Bu-tan give you a big hug!"
"Excuse me, madam, but I think you're mistaken. I'm not Soul, I'm actually – Gah! What are you doing? Unhand me, please – mmph!"
"Maka . . . did Blair work late last night again?"
" . . . Yes."
" . . . Wes!"
Maka found out two interesting things among many that morning – apparently, Soul wasn't the only member of the Evans family to get torrential nosebleeds, and Google searches on Death City did not cover purple-haired cat monsters.
Hope you enjoyed. Sorry again for the swearing but I needed the Wes/Soul contrast. Hopefully I didn't squeeze out the backstory too much. I said 'mom.' We say 'mum' in Australia, so it was weird and terrifying to do what felt like a deliberate typo.
