Stopgap
by. Poisoned Scarlet
5a
The dress itched.
The night was chilly, the full moon hung in the darkened sky radiantly.
It was the perfect night for a cup of hot cocoa and a novel before bed.
She wondered what she was doing here so late, sacrificing valuable studying and leisure time, dressed down in the silky and stylish emerald gown Tsubaki had bought her for prom night (which she had never worn because she skipped prom), with her hair styled in soft curls; clipped behind her head. Soul was lucky she changed her mind at the last second and agreed to his poorly asked request...
It was a concert, he had first told her. It was mandatory and it was too short notice for him to find someone else.
It was no wonder she'd rejected him at first, Maka sourly thought as she remembered that night.
"I was gonna' ask you anyway," he said, rather amused by the deep scowl that marred her face when he said he had no one else to ask. "You'd probably keep me from bashing my brains out with a violin out of boredom."
"I'd probably let you."
"C'mon, Maka, don't be like that." Soul smirked, arms crossed behind his head. "You know you'd miss me."
"I'd miss that," she pointed below his waist flatly. "But not you."
Soul merely snorted.
She gazed up at the impressive amphitheater while Soul handled something by the ticket booth; watched the elegantly dressed men and women that strode past them with that same air of superiority Soul sometimes displayed. Embezzled dresses, gold hanging off their wrists, ears, necks like paper weight. Suited men, with their hair slicked back, their ties in alignment with their vest, wearing haughty smirks matched with condescending eyes.
She felt misplaced amongst the aristocrats.
She wanted to leave.
"C'mon, let's get this over with." Soul muttered, grabbing her arm. He led her inside, and she noticed his hand was tugging at his neck; as if the white collar were suffocating him. For someone who appeared to never have an interest in these sort of things, Soul cleaned up rather nice and looked the part.
His suit was black and white; plain, yet it illustrated his usually bored crimson eyes and tanned skin perfectly. His hair had been combed back, still rather messy but a drastic improvement from usual. His shoes, she noticed discreetly, were polished enough that she caught her reflection in them with every step.
"If we're going to pretend we're a couple," Maka began, aggravated, "then you're going to have to act the part of a caring boyfriend!" She tore her arm out of his tight grasp. "And caring boyfriends don't drag around their girlfriends like they're baggage!" It had been a request Soul had asked her before they'd arrived, stating that then his mother would ask no questions.
Soul rolled his eyes. "Then you haven't gotten around that much, have you, Maka?" He hissed when she stomped her heel into his shoe. Her heels were spikes, to his horror.
"Shut up! Hiro never treated me like this, even if he was an ass." A flash of silver came from the stage and her eyes were automatically drawn to it, missing the hard expression that crossed Soul's face just as the silver haired man on the stage announced his greeting to his audience. "Come on, Soul, it's starting! Your family is probably wondering where you're at by now..."
"Yeah." And he said nothing else, taking her by the wrist this time.
Maka noticed his steps were measured; his shoulders straight and his back rigid. There was a neutrality to his expression that disturbed her; as if missing vital human emotions were a natural process of his life. And when she looked forward, her eyes locking on the judgmental gaze of a beautiful woman with ruby lips and equally bright eyes, she understood why.
"Sit here." Soul said, guiding her down into the seat before he straightened and glided toward his mother. Maka watched silently: the woman's expression was measured as well, detached, as her son bent down to kiss her cheek. She asked something quietly and Soul replied with a single nod. She seemed to lose interest then, her gloved hand merely patting his cheek once; dismissing him instantly.
She noticed the man sitting beside the beautiful woman, with crystal blue eyes clear enough to rival Hiro's yet lacking the idiotic warmth that her ex boyfriend's held. His own hair was raven black, slicked back strictly; his wife's a silvery gray, let loose in enviable curls down her shoulders, her ample chest. It was obvious that her sons had inherited her genes and not their fathers...
"This is why I hate coming to these things." Soul grumbled, dropping down beside her. "Fuckin' stiffs all over the god damn place."
"Shh, keep it down!" Maka shushed. "They can hear you!"
"Let'em hear me! I don't give a shit." Soul said, snidely. "They know it's true."
"Soul!" Maka grabbed the sleeve to his blazer, bringing his low enough so she could say in his ear: "I don't care if you don't want to be here: you have to be here, so deal with it!" She hissed. "Stop making this worse than it is – I don't want to be here, either!"
"Really?" Soul raised a skeptical brow. "Most girls would kill to be here, surrounded by all these rich bastards. Who knows? You might get lucky."
Maka pursed her lips. "How many times do I have to tell you: I'm not like most girls." She cast him a sharp, side-long, look. "I'm just doing this because is was an emergency and I didn't have anything better to do on Sunday, anyway." She sunk into her seat, her hands placed timidly on her lap.
She stiffened when she felt him lean over, his lips purposely brushing the sensitive rim of her ear.
"Don't worry," he whispered, his fingers brushing the skin of her arm tauntingly, "I'll make it up to you later."
Her mouth dried and her heart sped up to a grossly pace and she wondered what was happening to her as the lights shut down and a single spotlight illuminated a man capable of awing the angles himself with his talent.
5b
"Of course he'd wow another crowd." Soul sarcastically said, as they made their way outside the amphitheater at a snails pace. Maka tried looking ahead of the tall men and women but didn't even catch sight of the exit sign. "He is a prodigy! Guess I should've known better than to be surprised..."
"I thought it sounded nice." Maka commented, with a small smile. Soul rose a brow.
"Just nice?"
"Well, yeah." Maka smiled a little more. "This is the first time I've ever heard this type of music before, so I have nothing to compare it to."
"Then you should be amazed by it!" Soul persisted. "Why aren't you amazed? He performed all of those scores without missing a single note – it was perfect!" He sounded bitter.
"Well, I'm not!" Maka snapped, self-conscious. "I – it's just music! I don't see any sort of amazing feeling that can come from stringing together a bunch of notes!"
Soul gawked, affronted, as if she had just insulted his mother—although, Maka agreed dryly, he would've probably not been as insulted if she'd talked smack about his mother instead of the concept of music. "How could you not see any sort of feeling in music? Music is the one medium where a person can pour their entire soul into a song! Where they could make others feel how they feel! It's one of the best ways to express yourself!"
"I think they're better ways – like, painting!"
"Painting is gay." Soul deadpanned. "Music is better."
"No, it's not!" Maka argued. "You're only saying that because you like music better than art! Art is a perfectly good way to express yourself – it's probably easier and better to express yourself through art than it is through music!"
"Is not!" Soul scoffed. "What do you get out of a bunch of shitty lines and colors? Nothing."
"Well – what do you get out of a bunch of random sounds?"
"First of all, music isn't composed out of a 'bunch of random sounds' – it has to be aesthetically pleasing on the ears, and there's a process to composing."
Maka glared. "There's a process to art, too, it's not just a bunch of 'shitty lines and colors', Soul."
Soul scowled heavily, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking away stubbornly. "Whatever, I still like music better." He paused, as she huffily stated she preferred art over music, and asked: "Hey, what type of music do you like? That crappy pop they play on the radio?"
"NO!" Maka glowered. She crossed her arms, stating proudly: "I like trance fusion."
"Oh, god." Soul gaped, looking horrified for her. Maka, on the other hand, had no idea why he looked so nauseated. Trance fusion was a pretty good genre of music, at least in her opinion. "I've never met a more musically illiterate person in my life!"
"I'm not musically illiterate!" Maka shouted, stopping altogether. The crowd split around them, continuing their march to the exit, as they shouted at each other. "I don't get what's the big deal about music - so what? I don't even know how to play an instrument – do you?"
He stopped, too. "Yeah."
Maka blinked, rather surprised. "You do? W-what do you play?"
"Piano."
"The piano..." Maka trailed off, wondrous. Somehow, the instrument fit him.
"You know, the one with the black and white keys? Big, shiny, usually black?"
"Yes, I know what it is!" Maka ground out, adding in a considerably softer voice: "That guy... Wes Evans, he's you're brother, right?"
"Yeah, so?" He sounded guarded.
"So if he's your brother, and your family comes from a long line of famous musicians... then why aren't you up there?" Maka curiously asked, knowing now that the Evans family were quite the celebrities amongst the classical music enthusiasts. She could see why as well: Wes was, she supposed, rather amazing, in the way he fluidly handled his instrument. And if the whispers that had surrounded her after he finished a piece said anything, then the Evans family was practically comprised of the most talented musicians the world had to offer...
Then what of Soul?
Maka watched his eyes harden and his face frost into that scary, neutral, expression that made her gut knot up.
"Because I don't have talent." He stated with a conviction that made Maka's chest tighten. "That's why."
Somehow, Maka didn't believe him.