"C'mon, Soul, just one song!" she pleaded, tugging his arm toward the piano in the ballroom.

Soul brushed her hand away and slouched off with a few parting words. "No thanks. Where's the bathroom? I gotta take a leak…"

Maka was left standing there, looking disappointed and downcast. She tugged self-consciously on the lacy hem of her indigo cocktail dress, absent-mindedly wishing it were a bit longer.

"Maka!" called somebody from the edge of the room. She looked around; there was Liz, in a tight red dress, her long dirty blonde hair falling in a mass of ringlets. Maka slipped through the throng to the eldest Thompson sister.

"Hey, Liz," she said. Liz gave her a narrowed look.

"He still won't do it, will he?"

Maka sighed and shook her head.

"Nope. He ran off to the bathroom, and I'm not following him in there."

"I'll get Kid," said Liz, and before Maka could tell her otherwise, the pistol was gone in search of her meister.

Maka smacked her palm to her forehead, dragging it down her face in exasperation. Great. Even if Liz somehow convinced Kid to talk to Soul, he'd refuse, and then get pissed and accuse her of not understanding the meaning of no. He would blame her for getting their friends all riled up about his piano playing—which was amazing, by the way—and then not talk to her for a week. That was a pretty standard routine, and one she was, to be quite frank, totally and completely sick of.

Liz appeared a few minutes later, dragging Kid by the elbow, who in turn towed a very disgruntled-looking Soul. Maka had been sipping punch from a cup and watching people dance, leaning against the wall and trying to be invisible. When the others came up, she looked over and detached herself from the wall, tired green eyes fixed on the trio. Soul glowered balefully at her and tried for what was probably the hundredth time at least to pull free of Kid's grasp. And probably for the hundredth time at least, he failed. The Reaper had quite a grip when he wanted to.

"Damnit, Maka, would you just take no for an answer? Just for once?" he snapped when Kid didn't relinquish his hold. Maka scowled.

"I'm not the one who sent Kid after you," she sniffed haughtily. Despite her fiery tone, her eyes were dark and weary.

"But you did tell Liz to—"

"Shut up, Soul!" Maka said coolly, setting her punch glass on a nearby table. Taken by surprise, Soul did as he was asked. "I did not tell Liz to do anything. I told her that you said no. Again. I can't control either of the Thompson sisters; no one can, and you should know this by now. We both know that she has her own agenda. I'd barely told her that you declined the request before she vanished. I am not the only one who wants to hear you play. But you obviously couldn't care less either way, and I'm not gonna force you."

Soul sagged visibly, with relief, Maka guessed.

"But I still don't understand your aversion to playing, Soul, I really don't."

His scarlet eyes flashed.

"How many more times do I have to tell—"

"I know your reasoning," she interrupted, sounding increasingly irritated. "I just don't get it. Not at all."

"You don't have to understand it," Soul snapped, but his eyes couldn't quite meet hers, she noticed. They were shadowed, downcast. He scuffed a foot against the floor—a sign Maka had grown accustomed to attributing to discomfort.

"Liz, Kid, could you give us a minute?" Maka asked, not wanting an audience for their conversation. Soul could second her thoughts, and was grateful.

Obediently Kid disappeared; Liz gave them a wry look before following suit. Maka turned around and caught the back of Soul's jacket as he tried to slip away. He cursed quietly and pulled vainly against her hold—which was firmer than Death the Kid's, unfortunately for him.

"Oh, no, you're staying right here until you listen to me," she said, pulling him back and pushing him into a chair. He scowled.

"Is this more of that 'the past is the past, don't let to ruin your present and future' lecture? 'Cause if it is, I think I'll pass."

She glared evilly at him, and the phrase if looks could kill ran through his mind. She was staring daggers at him. Automatically, completely unaware of his own actions, Soul cowered against the delicately carved back of his chair.

"No, but even if it was, you wouldn't be going anywhere. Now, please, please, try to listen with an open mind, Soul. It really won't kill you, I promise, and if it makes you feel better I won't tell anybody else that your ears are used for anything more than decoration. I know what cool ornaments they are," she added dryly.

His scowl deepened, but he nodded wordlessly. Maka looked him straight into his eyes, brightest emerald into darkest garnet. Soul felt something inside him heat up, and he fought desperately to keep the warmth from spreading up his neck and across his cheeks. He'd grown accustomed to controlling little things like that.

"Soul, you aren't your brother." He flinched at her opening line, but she continued. "Yeah, sure, your brother is talented and taller and maybe better-looking. Definitely he's better liked. But do you know why that is, Soul? Do you know why he has more friends than you? Why people love his music? Because they've heard it! Wes is brave and outgoing and daring. He's ready to take chances. But you aren't. You won't risk rejection. You won't risk getting hurt. And nothing worth anything comes without risk. Being a Demon Scythe doesn't mean you don't ever play it on the safe side, and you do. You and your brother have different music styles. Sure, maybe some people don't like yours. But not everybody likes your brother's, either, damnit! Everybody has their own preferences. I loved your music, Soul, and you know full damn well that I won't be the only one."

"But most people don't like that style of music," he replied sullenly. The furious blaze that ignited in her eyes would have had him backpedaling, if he had been on his feet and had anywhere to go.

"How the fuck would you know?" she demanded. He blinked. That was the first time she'd ever dropped the f-bomb, at least that he had heard. "How? For all you know, that twelve-tone-technique could be the whole world's favorite type of composition or whatever it's called, but you wouldn't risk finding out yourself. Plenty of people would like your music, if they got the chance to hear it. And even if they didn't, it's not like they'd treat you any different. Tsubaki and Liz and Pati and Kid and Blackstar would all still be your friends. None of them would treat you like a pariah for having weird taste in music. And if they did, then they're jackasses that don't deserve to be your friends anyway."

Maka ran a hand through her hair in her agitation, her emerald green eyes, darkened to olive in her irritation, sparking with emotion. Soul's own scarlet gaze was wider than normal, the color darker, flickering with uncertainty. Could she be right?

She took a shaky breath, the fire in her eyes dimming to something a little calmer. When she spoke, her voice was softer, gentler, better than the harsh fury that had grated it before. It was a disarming voice, and Soul wasn't entirely prepared for it.

"Soul, you can't hide your talents our whole life. Not when they're so much a part of you. You can't hide half of your life. It's something I know you love. Forget about your brother. He had a different style; you can't say one is better than the other. It's totally and completely different for each person. Do what you love, Soul. It will make you feel better, and it'll make everyone happy. It'll make me happy," she finished in barely a whisper, but Soul heard every word.

He stared at her for a long minute, that bright, crimson gaze locked onto her soft, glowing emerald one. Maka let the corners of her lips twist up in a soft, reassuring smile, encouraging him even without words.

Soul's hand shot out and grabbed hers, tugging her down onto his lap. Maka squeaked in surprise as she half-fell onto his muscled thigh. Hard, strong arms wrapped around her, warm even through his jacket, and she felt his chin rest on the top of her head. With an inaudible sigh, Maka relaxed and leaned into him, breathing in the smell of him. He didn't smell like cologne—he said guys who drowned themselves in canned scent were not cool at all—but he smelled like…like him. That was the best way she could describe it. He smelled like musk and leather, and it was a warm, comforting scent to her.

"How do you do that?" Soul asked softly.

"Do what?"

"Know exactly what to say to make me feel better and totally uncool at the same time?"

Maka laughed.

"It's a gift."

There was a short pause in which Soul just held her against his chest, and she played with the lapels of his jacket. His nose was buried in her hair, breathing in the subtle scent of the vanilla and lavender shampoo and conditioner that was her favorite. It was a smell that was totally her—sharp and warm and sweet at the same time. Just as his scent was like a safety blanket to her, so hers was to him. Finally Maka broke the comfortable silence.

"Soul…Did you actually think about what I said?"

He chuckled; his shoulders brushed hers with the action.

"Hard not to." He sighed. "Yeah, Maka, I did. And I'm gonna sound really uncool right now when I admit that you're probably right and I've been playing it safe ever since I left home. I've been hiding from a lot. I've been a total damn coward with my music, with my grades, with people. Fuck, I've been a coward with almost everything. Not cool. Not even a little bit cool."

Another pause. His fingers fiddled with a stray lock of her soft, ashy blonde hair.

"Will you play?"

A loud, long-suffering sigh.

"I guess. What've I got to lose, anyway?"

"That's the spirit!" Maka giggled, but when she tried to stand, Soul tightened his hold on her, pulling her back tightly against his hard, muscled chest. She squeaked in surprise again, her small, calloused hands pushing futilely against him. Soul chuckled.

"The other pianist is still here. We can wait til he leaves."

"But Soul, you said—"

"I never said when, did I?" he teased. "Just be glad I'll do it at all."

Maka slumped back against him with a huff. Soul allowed himself a small smile. She was cute when she was annoyed. Her eyes sparked with flecks of bright, lime green, her cheeks dusted with pink, and she pursed her lips stubbornly. Soul found himself unable to look away from her rosy mouth. Slowly, unconsciously, he started to lean forward, aching to meet her lips with his own.

"Hey! Soul, the pianist is gone, now will you—what're you doing?" Maka's voice jerked him out of his daze and he leaned back sharply, swearing inwardly for the near miss. "Soul? Is something wrong?"

He shook his head, as if to clear it, and answered, in a voice rougher than his usual growl.

"Nah, it's cool. Nothing's wrong. What were you saying?"

Maka regarded him curiously.

"I was going to ask if you'd play, since that other guy's gone now, but now I'm wondering if we should just go home. You look a little flushed—are you sure you're alright? No fever or anything?"

He shrugged and brushed her off of his lap; she stood gracefully and continued to watch him with wary eyes.

"No, Maka. I told you—I'm fine."

"So you'll play?"

Soul heaved a great sigh and rose to his feet. "I guess. Where is the damn thing, anyway?"

…

Maka clapped the loudest, a wide, electrifying smile gracing her face. Her eyes shone admiringly up at him where he sat, half-hunched, as if expecting a rebuff. His stunned face was the result of not receiving said rebuff. The result of convincing himself that no one would ever be able to stand his music. The result of telling himself over and over just how horrible he was. But he wasn't horrible. And the looks on his friends' faces told him so.

Huh, he thought, standing and taking a bow. Maybe Maka wasn't the only one with acceptance issues.