A/N: This chapter marks the first switch to Soul's POV, which will happen only a few times in this story. It made it particularly difficult to get down. As usual, thanks to rebornfromash and ilarual for their support and superb beta work-this would be much crappier without them.
Soul had no words, his mind blank and numb at his own actions as he trailed after his brother to slide into the passenger seat of the small black SUV because he'd just kissed his meister. He'd just kissed his meister, and it had been fantastic at the same time it was horrible because he'd sprung it on her and in the end it was just a part of this stupid fucking game they'd been forced to play, that he had practically begged her to play, and it wasn't fair that something that was just an act had felt so real and good and right. He wanted to shout his elation to the heavens at the same time he felt like crying his despair because how long had he wished he could do that? How many dreams had he had of kissing her, more than kissing her? And yet, to do it like this, a part of some cruel farce, was never what he'd wanted.
Was it wrong that he was glad that his first kiss was with Maka even if it wasn't real? Even if he was the only one for whom it actually meant something? It was pathetic, true, that he was nineteen and had never before kissed a girl, but when the only girl you'd ever actually wanted to kiss was your partner of seven years who wanted nothing to do with you or anyone romantically, it did tend to make things pretty fucking difficult.
Then again, maybe it was just him she didn't want. Soul knew it wasn't her first kiss, though who and when she had kissed someone else was something she'd never been willing to tell him, only that it happened. He had to fight down the dark tendrils of jealousy that clawed at his heart at the thought because, really, who did he have to blame for the knowledge but himself?
He remembered teasing her that no one would want to kiss a violent bookworm when he was young and stupid and oblivious to his own growing feelings, to the fact that he, in fact, wanted to kiss a violent bookworm, and she had haughtily replied that at least she had actually been kissed. He remembered, though they were only fourteen, feeling the wave of sickening shock hit him at the knowledge because even then, so long ago, he had somehow come to think of her as his Maka. The only problem was, Maka was not some possession and she had never belonged to anyone, least of all him. He might desperately wish to possess her heart as fully as she had long since possessed his, however unwittingly, but you could wish in one hand and shit in the other, as the saying went, and all that wishing had done for him was end in a lot of long, hot showers alone.
The scythe was pulled from his near brooding by a light cough, his brother turning a questioning gaze to him for an instant before returning his eyes to the road.
"Something wrong?" Wes asked a bit too casually.
"You," Soul practically growled.
"Yes? Me?" His brother replied innocently.
"Yes. You. Are an asshole." Soul knew he sounded sulky, but he couldn't be arsed to care, he was too-pissed, annoyed, upset, stunned, elated, something.
"You wound me, little brother. And here I've been working so hard to look out for your best interests," Wes replied in mock sorrow, unable to keep the grin from his face.
"Doesn't change the fact you're an ass," Soul grunted. "Doesn't change the fact that Maka's probably gonna chop me to death next time we're alone all because you just had to chase your fiancé down and plant one on her and that somehow meant I had to do the same all because you fucked up and told people we're married. Death dammit Wes, do you know how much those chops hurt? Not cool. So not cool."
"Death damnit?" Wes laughed.
Soul pinched the bridge of his nose because he was in no mood to be teased for having picked up Maka's Death Child speak; spend enough time at Shibusen and it was an inevitable fact of existence.
"Just-shut up, will you?" the scythe responded sullenly, slouching further into the leather of his seat and wishing himself far, far away. Or back in that shop kissing his meister again. Definitely the second one.
When Wes just chuckled and turned up the violin piece that was coming through the speakers, Soul kept his gaze pointedly on the scenery streaming past, feeling like he was ten years old all over again. He was pretty sure it was Vanessa-Mae-the electronic accompaniment screamed it-and was equally sure Wes had chosen it on purpose in order to torment him, playing on his deep and abiding dislike of all things electronica. Asshole.
Soul gazed boredly through the window, trying to tune out the electronic violin crappola. Being surrounded by so many trees was so different from what he was used to now, in the barren waste where Death City stood nestled, that it made him feel small and strange. Sure, there were trees in or near the city-the training forest, that odd ring of woods a few miles from the city that no one could ever quite account for, but for the most part, he had grown used to sand and open sky. It had taken time. When he first moved there, so long ago now, he had felt exposed in middle of so much nothing, but now it felt like home, it felt like the place where the scythe had found himself, truly and at last. This felt-like being sucked into the vortex of his past, all the trees looming, menacing, making him feel tiny and insignificant like he had when he was a child. It was odd, too. It wasn't as though they had never returned to the East Coast or even Connecticut for missions, wasn't as if he hadn't been amongst trees many times since moving to Death City, but somehow it felt different now that he was home. Somehow, he felt less like the Death Scythe he had become and more like that lost, cowering little boy. He fucking hated it.
Only able to take looking at the green streaks of passing trees and all the memories they dredged up for so long, Soul turned his eyes back to his brother, who was humming along to the music in the most obnoxiously self-satisfied way.
"How much longer 'till we get there?" he grumbled.
Wes flicked his eyes over and shrugged. "Not long, ten more minutes maybe. Mom insisted on that expensive Italian tailor in Westport. You know how she is with things like this."
"Unfortunately, yes. You think they'll be able to fit me in time?" Soul couldn't keep the hopeful note out of his voice that, perhaps, this wouldn't quite be possible.
"Oh, I think they'll manage, never fear. Throwing enough money at a problem does tend to render solutions, and Mom has plenty of money to toss around when she wants something done."
Soul heaved a sigh. "Riiiight." This type of shit was exactly what he was glad to leave behind, all this privileged bullshit, this focus on just the right image. Yet here he was. For the twentieth time at least since he'd arrived, he wondered why he'd come
It's just a few days, just a few days, just a few days and then never again, he let the mantra repeat in his head and in his heart because he'd put up with this for 12 years-he could manage a few days for his only brother.
Ten minutes later, true to his brother's word, they were pulling into a spot in front of the shop in Westport. The city had a quaint little downtown, filled with the sort of upscale stores and restaurants that were frequented by the type of people who lived here, the type with money and lots of it. The shop they parked in front of was brick and unobtrusive on the outside, without even so much as a real sign, but inside, it looked like a palace, with fabric draped walls and mirrors, mahogany everywhere, and plush furniture. It instantly brought Soul hurtling back to his childhood, to his first fitting for his first performance suit, and he felt like he might be sick, the bile instantly rising, hot and thick in his throat.
He swallowed it down, swallowed down the bitterness of the memories, and looked around, his bored gaze a well worn mask for the inner turmoil, for the hurt and angry child he could never quite cast aside.
His eyes finally settled on three men occupying a set of corner couches, three men with tan skin and brown eyes, three men Soul had hoped never to see again. He took in a deep breath and strode forward to sit casually at the end of one couch next to one of his cousins, settling his limbs into a slouch, his mask still firmly in place.
Wes had stopped to speak with an attendant, so for the moment Soul was alone. With them.
"Well, well!" He felt a thick hand drop roughly on his shoulder and scowled involuntarily. "If it isn't little Soulie! Thought you got the hell outta Dodge," the man next to him said too cheerfully. Luca had always been the most brash of the three, and as the other man moved a hand to brush back perfectly coiffed auburn hair from his eyes, Soul felt suddenly as small and weak as he had been when they were children.
It wasn't that his cousins were bad people exactly, not exactly. It was more that he'd been younger and strange looking and therefore an easy target for their pranks and ribbing. It was more that he refused to show his hurt, had donned the mask well and early, and that drove them to want to break it. Soul never let them, never let them see that they won, always fucking won, he saved that for the privacy of his own room.
Wes never knew-they were smart enough not to bother him when he was there; they knew how protective he'd always been of his baby brother.
It wasn't like it could happen often-they only saw the DiFranco cousins and their parents at rare holidays and occasional swanky parties-but that didn't make it any less hurtful, it didn't make it any easier that even his own damned blood treated him like a freak.
"Luca," he said, a clipped greeting. "Antonio," he nodded slightly to a tall, dark haired man across from him. "Miguel," he nodded again, this time to the sandy haired man next to Antonio. They all wore fitted designer jeans and button downs and Soul instantly loathed them all over again.
He probably wasn't being fair-they were all grown ups now and that was long in the past-but that didn't make the feelings of hurt and anger and inadequacy any less real. It also didn't mean he could get out of talking to the other men in the here and now.
Death this trip was a fucking mistake; he'd deal with his meister's ridiculous lech of a father a million times over to avoid-this.
"So Soul," the man next to him began again after a moment. Luca had always been the ring leader-some things never changed. "Wes tells us you ran off and made good-never shuts up about it, really. Last Death Scythe, they call you, fighting off monsters and witches and the forces of evil." The man's smile seemed genuine, but Soul didn't relax, couldn't. "Our baby cousin the hero! Looks like you did okay for yourself. Not exactly a normal path, but really, you never were."
The scythe couldn't tell whether or not that was meant to be a dig, and really-the realization was sudden and forceful-he didn't fucking care. He wasn't that little kid anymore and he could give a fuck less what Luca or Miguel or Antonio or any fucking one thought about him. The only people whose opinions mattered to him were Maka, first and foremost, and their friends, and maybe Wes. That was it. These three clowns could go to hell.
The realization made him feel like a stone had been cast off from around his neck. Sure that kid was with him, that bitter little brat who had pretended not to care, but now he was an adult who truly didn't give a fuck and it was...liberating.
Soul shrugged his response. "I'm a weapon. It's what weapons do."
"What's that like, anyway, fighting monsters? It sounds sort of-messy." Antonio, the youngest of the three DiFranco cousins and only a year older than Soul, had leaned forward in interest, though he was wrinkling his nose in distaste.
Another shrug. "You get used to it. Anyway, Maka does most of the work."
"That's right," Miguel grinned at him. "You have a meister. Sounds kinky." He waggled his eyebrows at this and gained an eyeroll for his trouble.
"Some people call them technicians," the scythe's tone was bored. "They wield the weapon. Not like I can wield myself, now is it?" He tried to stay polite. It was normal, for outsiders not to understand how anything at the DWMA worked, weapon-meister pairs included.
"But your technician or meister, whatever, is a girl right? That's gotta be hot," Miguel pushed. The middle cousin and Antonio's older brother, he'd always been the pervert of the group, the one who figured out that Uncle Alastair had a stash of classic Playboy magazines in his office.
"Actually," a new voice interrupted, and Soul wasn't sure if he should breathe a sigh of relief or of despair as he looked up to see his brother, the oldest of the cousins by a slim year, "That girl is quite the accomplished woman, not to mention stunning, and she's also his wife."
The knowing grin on his brother's face rankled, and it turned out irritation won out over either relief or despair.
"Wait, wait-you're married?" Luca said, incredulous. Soul shrugged, his default position, and felt like murdering his older brother.
"You're, what, 19 now?" Miguel cut in. "And you went out and got married?" He looked utterly shocked.
"But you didn't have a wedding?" Antonio raised both eyebrows. "I mean, Aunt Sophie would never-"
"We did it in Atlantic City," Soul cut him off, wanting to end this subject before it could get going. Fucking Wes. "No big deal. Moving on."
Wes had taken a position standing near the arm of the couch next to Soul. There were two men behind him who Soul didn't recognize, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
"Yes, moving on," Wes grinned down at him. "We should probably do what we came here for. Eric Jones, Connor Avery," he gestured first to a dark skinned man a few inches shorter and much more built than he was, then a pale, rail thin red haired man of middling height, "this is my little brother, Soul," his brother's hand flicked his way, "and those three are Luca, Miguel, and Antonio DiFranco, our cousins," he gestured to each in turn, eyes sweeping the group. "And now that we're all suitably acquainted, I'm fairly certain Signore Falvo has a busy schedule, and would appreciate our cooperation in completing final fittings and measurements."
For the first time, Soul noticed a short, balding man assessing their group from a few feet away. He was wearing an impeccably fitted white shirt and slacks, and was practically bouncing, though with nervousness or simply excess energy the scythe wasn't really certain. At least he didn't seem quite as above it all as these sorts often did, and he felt mild relief at the fact.
"Yes, right, I need-you there," he began in a thick, Italian accent as he waved over at the man Wes had just introduced as Eric Jones, "In dressing room one, you," he gestured to Connor Avery, "in two," and you, he motioned to Antonio, "in three. And of course, Mr. Evans," he looked to Wes, "will come with me to the main room. Try on the the tuxedos you find-I or one of my assistants will be in to see you shortly. The rest-you may wait here, please."
With that, he moved briskly away, Wes following. The other three moved away as well to their respective dressing rooms, leaving Soul alone with Luca and Miguel. Just fucking perfect.
At least Miguel now seemed occupied, so that was a plus; he had broken out his smartphone and was busily web surfing or texting or something. For his part, Luca looked bored, which was always trouble. Soul mentally braced himself and hoped it was just a gross, knee jerk overreaction, a ghost of his undying past.
"So what's it like, being married?" Luca suddenly asked, voice casual.
"Uh, cool, I guess," Soul shrugged.
"Bet it's a lot more than that," Miguel snickered from the other couch. "You should see his woman, Luc. She's fucking hot." To punctuate his point he sprung up and shoved his phone in the other man's face.
Soul sputtered out, "what, how did you even...?" as Luca let out a low whistle.
"Damn you don't mess around, do you?" His cousin looked up at him with a grin.
"What are you even looking at?" Soul asked, unable to keep the tinge of annoyance from his voice as he leaned over slightly to view the phone. "Oh," he finished lamely. It was that picture. He and Maka had attended the ball commemorating the defeat of Asura a few months ago and Maka had worn what her weapon had since mentally dubbed that dress-slinky, silver, strapless, long with a high slit up one side and a plunging neckline-Soul had feared he'd die of blood loss that night, and keeping his mounting attraction in check had been damned difficult. He'd forgotten that the reporters in attendance had snapped a picture of the two of them dancing together, something he'd been far less reluctant to do than he'd revealed to his meister at the time. Looking at the picture, they looked like a couple, even a happy one, and his cousins were right, Maka looked as smoking hot as she did in his memory of that night. Too bad the rest was a lie, including the caption: Last Death Scythe Soul "Eater" Evans and his meister Maka Albarn, love is in the air?
Clearly, looks could be deceiving, and he wished that that reality didn't hurt so damned much.
"Bet she's a real hellcat in bed" Miguel was grinning at him like a mad man. "I mean, I saw some of those training shots. The girl is flexible. Maaaan I would so hit that. Guess it's why you locked that shit up, but dude, better keep a leash on her because she must have guys drooling after her."
The weapon was scowling at his cousin, "She's not my fucking property and I didn't marry her to keep her locked up. Fuck, Miguel, do the women of the world a favor and never marry."
It still gave the death scythe a slight thrill, to talk about Maka as if she really were his wife, though it was bittersweet because soon enough they would be back to their default holding pattern and he hated the very thought. What he didn't hate was the thought of what Maka would be like in bed, because fuck had he thought about it, and fuck were the images of what that might be like now parading through his head in an endless loop at the very idea, and fuck did he wish he actually knew, not that it was any of Miguel's or anyone else's damned business.
"Toooouchy," Luca put in. "Look, we get it, hot wife, you don't like other guys looking. But seriously, hot as she is, I'm surprised you'd tie yourself down. I mean, Last Death Scythe and all, hero who saved the world or whatever, the girls must be all over you."
Soul shrugged because it was true enough that he had plenty of girls throw themselves at him-just not the one he actually wanted to throw herself at him.
"Unless..." He raised his eyebrows, then waggled them, "oh you sly dog! You're keeping the hot wife to yourself and cleaning up on the side! Shit, didn't know you had it in you, cuz," the redhead grinned.
"Man, must be fucking sweet," Miguel added. "All that ass, damn."
Soul couldn't believe what he was hearing, what they were implying. What. The. Fuck?
Did they actually think he'd cheat on his meister, his Maka? Hell, he'd never touched another woman and they weren't even together! He would never, ever-never-no fuck no. How dare the motherfuckers, how fucking dare they insult his meister that way, insult him that way by suggesting, suggesting-he'd fucking kill them, fucking bastards.
His fists clenched tighter and tighter in his near homicidal rage as he stood suddenly, looming over both men, the very idea that he would ever betray her in any way, let alone the way that would hurt her most, that he would even want to, had his vision going red, his heart racing with the barely contained urge to protect his meister from anything, everything, from this and from douchebags like his cousins.
There was a flash of light and he didn't even register what it meant-just that he wanted them to fucking stop, to fucking take back the bullshit they were spewing, to fucking-
Looking down, the death scythe noticed that his cousins were staring at him, staring at his transformed hand, at the sharp, wicked black and red blade it had become, in a mix of fear and awe, the expressions so strange on their faces that it startled him out of his rage
He realized, suddenly, that the flash had come from him. He had transformed without willing it, had totally lost his cool, had been ready to hurt them for their foul words.
Fuck, he was better than this. Maka had made him better than this.
He took one deep breath, then another, choking down his rage, willed his hand to return to flesh in another flash of light and, unclenching his fists forcibly, shoved his hands into his pockets.
"You will never disrespect my meister that way again," he spoke down at them, his voice deceptively cool, the rage beneath still barely contained, still palpable. "Fuckers like you, hell, like me, aren't fit to lick her fucking shoe, and you will never imply otherwise again, are we clear?"
The two men exchanged nervous glances and nodded as one.
"Sorry dude it was-just a joke man. A joke," Miguel stammered out. Luca didn't even try to speak, just continued staring at him like he'd grown a second head. Well, good. Let him fucking stare.
"Next time you joke, make sure it's actually fucking funny," the scythe said and then walked over to sit heavily on the empty couch. As he raised his eyes, he noticed Wes standing there in his tux, watching, and wondered how much he'd seen.
Fuck, could this day get worse?
At the thought, Soul couldn't help but to wonder how Maka was fairing, and hoped it was a shitton better than this-Aria seemed pretty chill, so with luck, her bridesmaids would be, too. It was unfair, dragging his meister through this bullshit, as much as he selfishly needed her here, and he could only hope she was doing alright. He certainly couldn't wait until this ridiculous separation was over and done.
Their earlier kiss suddenly leapt to his mind, unbidden, and he thought that, perhaps, this separation, all of this utter crap, was the universe punishing him for that stolen moment of forbidden bliss, must be.
To top it off, Wes was still staring at him, looking like some sort of Adonis in his bloody tux, black and fitted with white silk underneath, his body tall and lean and fit, his features practically fucking chiseled, his blonde hair looking just slightly mussed in that intentional way, and Soul wondered for the umpteenth time how they could even be related, let alone brothers, the demonic freak and the perfect specimen, brothers, another cosmic joke.
"You're up, Soul. Signore Falvo needs you in the main room." Wes thumbed over his shoulder towards the other side of the shop and Soul rose with a heavy sigh, ignoring his brother's too knowing eyes.
"Whatever," the scythe muttered as he trudged over to where Wes had directed, seeming reluctant but truly glad to put some distance between himself and his cousins, if only for a little while. Much to his chagrin, his brother followed as he made his way to the doorway leading to the main dressing room, and clapped him on the shoulder briefly.
"Proud of you, little brother," he finally said.
"Uh," Soul turned around at the doorway as his brother removed his hand. Wes wore a fond smile and it almost made him feel… warm. Underneath all his meddling and teasing and all the unfounded jealousy, his big brother had always been there for him, had always been his greatest ally and staunchest defender. It was easy to forget, far too easy, but it was so.
Soul smiled back, a little sheepish, a little embarrassed that his brother must have witnessed that scene, and maybe a little proud, too, because in the end, he had kept his cool. "Uh, thanks. I guess."
He turned back to enter the dressing room, running his hand through the back of his hair in thought.
So maybe this day was going to suck, this whole trip was going to suck. Maybe he had to deal with the sweet and perfect hell of pretending that his meister loved him as much as he loved her, and maybe he had to deal with his dick father and his asshole cousins and a whole crowd of family and friends he'd just as soon never see again. Maybe he'd rather be hit by a truck, or hell, almost cut in half by Crona again than here, any fucking where but here. At least, through this whole thing, his brother still had his back.
Then again, he always had.