Soul opened the door with a placid smile. There was no hope for it to stay, since while he had been expecting to be face to face with Julien for the regular Saturday morning pick-up, it was Remy's stony eyes that hit him instead. "Oh–" was all he could manage for a greeting, but still opened the door the rest of the way so Remy could step into the foyer.
"Is Lala ready?"
He couldn't decide what irked him more– Remy's natural inclination to get straight to the point or that stupid nickname he insisted on calling Layla. Doesn't he know that's a damn teletubby? "Sorry, she's been sorta draggin' her feet today…"
Remy sighed before taking slow steps towards the living room. Appraising eyes that matched Layla's scanned over the mantle before a derisive sigh left his lips. "You still haven't changed a thing."
Soul was sure his muscles would snap if he bristled any further but that alone brought a new pain to the tightening. "Not like your sister had bad taste."
That onyx hair that passed down through the Desjardin's line wagged with a firm shake of his head. "Not the point. You're still living in some damn museum. It can't be good for her."
He could have swallowed the first part, but the second brought a heaving burn to his chest. "She's doin' just fine. Anyway, the doctor said we're supposed to be open about the past– somethin' Layla tells me you aren't doin'."
Remy turned quickly, eyebrows raising with a scoff. "What?"
"I know Julien tries." Soul's voice slithered lower but the growl was still rumbling each word. "But you won't talk about Viv to her. It upsets her because she wants to know. It's not like you don't–"
"And who's telling her about Wes?" He offered coldly in return. "I heard she's not even seeing her other grandparents, and instead you keep leaving her with my father every weekend."
"He asked to see her," Soul hissed. "And my parents are–" Useless. Taking an extra couple of weeks in France because yeah, their grandchild isn't their problem. "When they are with her, I know they talk about him, so–"
"But she lives with you," Remy spat. "Unless you've really fallen victim to that papa delusion. Maybe that's why you can't be bothered to talk about your own brother– too much competition."
His jaw tightened, the heat coming to his eyes, and regardless of the pattering of feet that he could hear above them, he vomited a corner of those vile, dark thoughts: "You can talk about Viv. You have memories of her–"
Remy rolled his eyes, pale hands trying to dismiss the tirade that had only just started. "Again, you–"
But Soul grabbed at his shirt, pulling him a jittering step forward. "You have memories of her since she loved you. She fuckin' cherished you and there should be plenty of moments you can share with Layla so that she can understand just how lovin' her mother was. I can't do that for my brother because Wes never loved me." The last part was a trembling stutter, something long buried and now clawing and scraping its way to the surface. "I don't have memories with Wes."
He shook the fabric clenched in rage between his fingers. "I never saw Wes. We never knew each other from a stranger on the street except for holidays so I can't say a word to her. I don't need Layla thinkin' that her father was some asshole who didn't care about family because I can guess he loved her, guess he loved Viv, and that's all I want her to know. So get off my fuckin' back, and just do what your goddamn niece needs you to do for her." Soul released the fistful of shirt, anything that Remy could reply lost in his own labored breath.
The footsteps were louder now, leaving Soul no choice but to start out of the living room and back into the kitchen. He needed the quiet, the absence of Remy if he was ever going to pull himself together enough to even look at Layla.
Clenching to the sink, he finally heard Layla's sweet voice, her genuine joy and surprise. "Uncle Remy!"
"Lala, beautiful as always." He was sure Remy was scooping her up, twirling her around, being the good uncle he was supposed to be. It was the two of them that couldn't seem to find family harmony– always living with a bone to pick that should have been meatless long ago.
"Let me just say goodbye to Papa and I'll be ready!"
"Wait– I think Soul was–"
"I'm in the kitchen," Soul called over his shoulder. He finally released his fingers, letting the blood come back to his knuckles. The patter started again, and he turned just in time for Layla to come into the room. "You have fun with Remy today," he managed through a smile.
"I will…" Layla seemed to appraise him for a moment before leaning in to hug him around the middle. "Will you call me before bed tonight?"
"I always do," he murmured back, hand smoothing her hair in hope of creating just as much comfort for himself as for her. "I love you."
"I love you too." She squeezed for longer as if she had read him– and she probably could. "Have some ice cream tonight, okay?" Layla lifted expectant eyes to him.
Soul chuckled. "Maybe."
"No maybe," she scolded. "Say yes."
He thawed a little more as he toyed with the baby strands of hair next to her ear. "Yeah, bug, alright. I'll treat myself tonight."
Maka slowed at the crosswalk, feeling no need to jog in place since the motion thus far had done nothing for the knot in her. It was one of those nights– the kind when it was like the universe had thick cord and tied it suffocatingly tight around every organ. This was some kind of anxiety that she could never put her finger on, but it always foretold of no sleep, long runs, and an ennui that even kept her from reading. In other words, this weekend was going to be long even in its shortness.
She set her stare on the pedestrian signal on the pole across from her but suddenly her eyes diverted. There was a shock of white hair in the window– not just some grandpa but scraggly shaping around the profile of a young, handsome face. He was sitting glumly at a table, chin resting in his palm as he stabbed his spoon into a rather abused looking cup of ice cream. Somehow, he made the joyous treat look like nothing more than a bowl of depression with a sprinkle of neurosis.
The light switched from that ominous red hand to walk, and Maka obeyed, letting it summon her to the other side of the street. She should have kept running– the outfit and the sweat that was already beading along her back making her in no way presentable. Just as that command crossed her mind, she watched him sigh, eyes falling down to the mess he'd made as he softly shook his head.
The next thing she knew, she was through the door, the bell jingling jubilantly.
"Maka?" He dropped his jaw along with his spoon, his eyes blinking at her dumbfoundedly.
"Hi…" Okay, so you didn't think that far ahead. She glanced at the counter, no line leaving the worker very attentively staring at her. Instead, she brought her attention back to him. "I-I saw you in the window."
"Oh." His surprised eyes turned to the glass as if just noticing it.
"Um, we're closing in like fifteen minutes…" The barely legal girl behind the counter chirped.
Maka checked her watch– 9:45. It is kind of late for ice cream, isn't it? She went to pat her pocket, but the color crept up towards her ears as she was reminded of her outfit– of her purpose which left her without a wallet.
A chair scraped, and suddenly Soul was beside her, something close to a smile starting on his lips. "I heard the chocolate peanut butter swirl isn't so bad if you're into that sorta thing."
"Well…"
"And I guess let's say this one is on me. You did miss out on the s'mores the other night." He started to fish in his pocket, billfold opening to display a few crisp twenties. "Go ahead, tell the girl what you want."
"I think I'll take his suggestion," she murmured as she forced her eyes back to the girl behind the counter. "A small–"
"Medium," Soul corrected. "No one eats a small when it comes to ice cream."
She rolled her eyes. "A medium chocolate peanut butter swirl, please. With chocolate sprinkles." That brought a chuckle from him along with a little elation in the next beat of her heart.
"Good choice." Soul was paying steady attention to the cash, not looking at the handoff or the smile Maka offered in thanks. Currency was exchanged, the till chirping pleasantly after being fed. "Doesn't exactly look like you were out for ice cream." She caught him risking a glance, mostly hitting her shoes even though she did notice a little lingering up her legs before shooting to her face.
"I told you, I saw you in the window…" Maka tried again but her nerve fizzled and died. I saw you and you looked so… lonely.
"Yeah, you said…" He looked back at his table, eyes falling on his cup. "Uh, since they're closing up do you– would you want to take a walk?"
The real answer burned so easily on her tongue—yes—but she cautioned herself with what little common sense she had left. "You don't have to get Layla?"
That hit some kind of invisible target, and she watched him wince. "She's with her grandpa tonight."
He really is alone. "If you don't mind… I think I'd like the company." She caught a wobble to his smile before he walked back to the table and grabbed his ice cream even though half of it appeared to be soup. The tinkle of the bell signaled their departure out onto the sidewalk, making Maka pause. "Where to?"
"There's a park this way." He motioned back the way she'd come.
"Oh, Spiegelman?" Maka was never a fan of walking and eating, but she couldn't help herself from dipping her spoon in the tantalizing treat before bringing it to her lips.
"Yeah." He didn't mirror her, instead studying the way ahead. "You live around here?"
"Well…" The answer sat on her tongue with a swell of embarrassment but she banished it. "I moved in with my papa for a little bit. He's over that way, on Elm."
"The apartments?" Soul offered.
Maka managed a quick laugh. "Yeah, the ugliest building on the street. Then I'm going to guess you live around here too?" She tensed, slowing slightly so she could catch him entirely in her view. You said I'm welcome, right? So at the very least, I can ask that question. They made it to the opposite curb and cut down the next street.
"Yeah, over on Piedmont."
"Piedmont?" She gaped. "You mean all those ridiculous Victorians? You live in one of those?"
He let out a rough chuckle. "Trust me, wouldn't have been my first choice, but yeah. It's the grey one that sorta looks like it has the church spire?" Soul seemed only half sure of that, giving a shrug to punctuate.
"Wow…" Maka nudged him with her elbow. "To think you had style all along."
"Hey, I have plenty of style," he grumbled while—to her utter surprise—he needled his arm right back into hers. "So your dad, huh? Did he just move here too?"
They'd reached the iron gates that opened onto a cobblestone path smattered here and there with benches. There were only a few people walking through, none really stationary since the streetlights were the only illumination offered. Maka pointed towards a bench before she even approached his question. "He moved there after the divorce, so… over ten years ago?" She thumped into the seat, watching him hover for a moment. "You can sit, you know. I don't have cooties."
A dry laugh shot from his throat. "Sorry, just felt like maybe I put my foot in my mouth for a second."
"You can do that"—Maka shrugged before waving him towards the seat again—"and it's not the end of the world."
That only brought more churning thoughts to him, evident from the crease in his brow and the slow stoop to sit. He poked at his ice cream again. "Well, sorta feels like that's all I've done tonight so it might be nice not to do it again."
Maka waited, using another bite of her treat as an excuse to let him have his silence.
He snuck a glance at her through the corner of his eye. "You like runnin'?"
She nibbled at her spoon for a moment. "I don't think anyone likes running. It just helps clear my head– at least for a little bit. Do you have something like that?"
"Used to play piano," he muttered almost unintelligibly before finally taking a gooey bite.
There was no telling whether or not he'd keep producing words since his brow continued to furrow, but Maka took the chance. "You're a musician?"
"Piano, guitar, piss-poor saxophone." A little tremble threatened to pull the corner of his mouth into a smirk. "Mostly play guitar just for Layla now, but we do an acoustic show at school every year. Me and Kilik."
"When's that?"
"Uh…" Soul tilted his head thoughtfully. "Guess we said auditions were next week. Should be all together a little after Christmas– usually mid-January. Don't want to get the band-geeks feathers ruffled by havin' it too close to their holiday concert."
Maka laughed softly, finding the sound giving more form to his smile. "It's cool that you do that."
"Well–" He shrugged off the rest, the compliment having as much sticking power as a used bandaid.
Silence started to creep in, just the sounds of their spoons scraping against the cups to fill it. If… if he won't tell me what's wrong, maybe I can at least… Maka placed her cup to the side, hands planting on the edge of the bench to steady herself. "Can I tell you something Layla told me?"
His eyes popped wide. "Depends on how embarrassing it is."
Maka snorted. "I don't think it was about you exactly, and I guess it wasn't really Layla, but her telling me something Dr. Marie said."
That didn't help the skepticism on his face, but he nodded slightly.
"'Dr. Marie says we're all sad sometimes. It's normal,'" Maka parrotted succinctly. "I actually really needed her to remind me of that. You're raising an amazing little girl."
His glare hit his shoes, a sigh starting on his lips.
No, don't do that. Don't close off. Her fingers inched a little closer on the bench. "When my mama died"–that brought his attention instantly back to her face, eyes widening—"I sort of forgot that, or really, people tried to tell me the opposite. Everyone's so convinced that you should feel this way or that way, and they're so free with telling you about it. I was always either too sad or not sad enough."
His mouth gaped slightly but slid back to shut while his stare pleaded with her, spelling out some illegible message.
I'm trying, Soul. I really hope this is right– that I'm helping. "I always listened too. That was the worst part. I'd always alter how I felt, molding to their expectations about what my grief should be, but it was really just a mask. Nothing about how I acted actually mirrored what I really felt—what I really thought—and it just ruined everything for me."
Her finger touched ever so lightly to the hand that was resting on his kneecap, barely dusting his knuckle. "I don't know why you feel like you put your foot in your mouth so much today, but I don't think you should beat yourself up for it. However you feel is fine. Don't let anyone tell you differently."
A weak, breathless laugh left him as his stare dove to the ground. Maka watched in agony as he dipped his head, leaving his cup to the side so his hand could cover his eyes. His shoulders started to tremble, a silencing, hard set coming to his jaw. She lowered her hand, allowing the pads of her fingers to drift over his until she could clutch the top. Maka let him have his silence, his tears, but she refused to let go of his hand.
