burned into my brain are these stolen images
by. Poisoned Scarlett
act three
"Perfect, perfect! Oh, it's a blessing that I found you at the time I did! I wouldn't know what to do if I had to go through one more show with that awful pianist!" Marie, as she told him to call her, sighs with relief. She clasps her hands in front of her and looks so absolutely delighted that Soul is glad he decided not to ditch the interview for a game of basketball in the back lot of his apartment.
Soul places his hands on his knees as she frets and praises him, the praises doing nothing more than assuaging the anxiety he walked in with earlier. His piano skills have always been praised, both in his household and in the university, although his private compositions were something of a taboo subject in both respects. He has the talent for reciting even the most difficult pieces of classical music however it has never brought him the joy he knows it should. Instead, it leaves behind an empty feeling; a reminder that spitting back what others have created can only bring him an illusion of self-gratification. What brings him this sense of satisfaction in his life, in his soul, are his personal compositions however those have always been badly received, primarily due to their melancholic, often disturbing, nature.
They are also the unfortunate cause for many of his aches and pains growing up.
His parents stifled his drive for his own music when they first heard it and university only worsened things. It had not given him the release it promised it would; it only pressed down his family's title further and further upon him and constantly reminded him of the impossible standards he had to surpass.
He swore off the piano during the second year of university, disgusted with the staff and how absolutely relentless they were with his practice. They treated him like some sort of object, some thing that could be honed and filed and, with enough time, could bring them the same fame his elder brother had brought. He was seen as his brother, not Soul. He was never Soul, he was just Wes 2.0. One time, they had accidentally called him Wes as well. But he was not his brother (they could not be anymore different) and, as such, the last two years of his college life had been wrought with arguments and bitterness as he tried to ignore the yearnings for the piano that had brought him all of this grief in the first place.
He did not graduate Julliard with honors although he did graduate, just not with the honors his parents had hoped for.
But Marie doesn't need to know that.
"The girls will be so happy to know that we found a new pianist!" Marie chirps, bringing him back from his thoughts, and when she points to the doorway, he knows what she is asking.
"Uh, I thought I wasn't going to start until next week...?"
"Oh, well, if you want we can do that! Of course!" Marie flusters, embarrassed because she always gets ahead of herself. "I just, well, the girls are in the next room practicing and it always helps to have the piano accompany them rather than listening to a recording of one! But if you're busy, you don't have to stay!" She assures although the way she looks at him, warily, gives him the idea that rejecting her might not give him the best reputation. She seems to be easily swayed by the actions of others so he shrugs and decides starting his new job early can't hurt.
"Follow me, follow me! We have another piano in the dance room! It's a little old, but it'll do the trick!" Marie leads him down a long stretch of hall that turns right, leading to two large double doors. When she pushes them open, announcing the new addition to the team to the dozens of diligently practicing girls within the room, he knows that he's just landed in a sort of beautiful nirvana for men. There are all sorts of girls in one-piece suits that hug their fit bodies, some stretching past what he believed was physically possible, their hair pulled up in pony-tails and buns and their girlish giggles and laughs echoing in the huge dance room promisingly.
So it's funny how he manages to find her despite all the other pretty girls. She's all the way at the end, kneeling before a girl who sniffles and tries to hide the evidence of her crying from them. Marie doesn't notice her as she presents him to the rest but he notices her, both of them, and how the green-eyed doll pats her on the head and whispers something in her ear. They both stand and the other girl doesn't look as mopey as she did before, her raven black hair sticking out in twin pigtails similar to the green-eyed dolls, although hers is ash blonde and falls limp down her shoulders.
"Soul!" Marie calls and he tears his eyes from the doll. "The piano is over there! I'm not sure if you're familiar with the second number for Swan Lake...?"
There's a pause as he thinks, his eyes returning to the green-eyed doll. He finds her looking back, more curiously than anything, and he darts his eyes away because looking at her isn't helping him remember.
"Where's the sheet music?" He decides to ask and Marie points to the piano immediately. He walks over to it, aware of the numerous eyes that watch him. There are giggles that break out with his every step. For a moment, he thinks his hair must be doing that thing where it spikes up like a haystack, but when he looks in the mirror, he doesn't spy anything wrong with it. When he looks towards the girls, he finds a few of them flushing red and looking anywhere but him. His eyes dart to the green-eyed doll and he finds her watching him clinically now, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes reflecting nothing of the warmth he had read previously. He looks away when her eyes grow stale with distaste, wondering who stepped on her toes this morning...
"I can play it," he says after he eyeballs the sheets.
"You've played this piece before?" Marie asks, curiously.
"No," he answers and places the sheets back where they belong. "But I can do it." He prepares to sit and start the performance when a voice cuts through the air, sounding more like it belonged in an army camp than in a dance studio.
"How will you be able to play it if you've never played it before?"
"Maka!" Marie squeaks and Soul is pleased to finally have a name to pin on her pretty face.
Soul faces the green-eyed doll named Maka and all her irritation, her arms crossed more fiercely now. She is tiny yet she exudes a no-nonsense aura that warns that his smart-alec ways will not be tolerated under her rule. Although he has a penchant for going against what is normally followed so that's why his next words are nothing less than him and his less-than-glorious self:
"Don't worry about it, pigtails, I've got it," he answers snidely and it only serves to bristle her, her cheeks pinking at the jab at her hairstyle. "Just do what you do best and leave me to mine."
Her eyes narrow and her nose wrinkles and he thinks this is why he has trouble picking up girls, because he can't keep his fucking mouth shut and they can't handle his torrential backlash.
"Fine. But I expect you to execute this piece perfectly, you hear me?" She commands and he studies her, how she confidently strides to the middle of the room and gives him a look that offers no mercy should he defy her. His throat is a little tight and he wants to look away because the glacial look in her eye reminds him too much of his father. But he doesn't, he holds her gaze, and decides that he will prove himself to her even if he couldn't prove himself to his father.
His eyes harden. "Deal."
So he plays.
His fingers know what keys to hit as his eyes read each and every line on the sheets, never missing a beat even as he switches to the next page. He plays in the manner he had been raised to, the manner that his parents had approved of, the manner which brings back brittle feelings of unsatisfaction and yearning. But it works, this mechanical way of playing his soul, because the next time he looks, his fingers slipping from the keys onto his knees, he looks at her and finds her staring at him in awe. It's worth it even if he finds no pleasure in the music. Just the way her diamond-cut eyes glow with surprise and admiration is enough for him not to mind playing again. The other girls bare similar expressions of amazement and Marie is bursting with glee, clapping her hands furiously and patting herself on the back for her own good luck.
Soul smirks at the green-eyed doll, her cheeks reddening because she catches herself staring seconds too late.
"That good enough for you?" he drawls.
She sticks her head up, her jaw clamped shut. "You're...really good. But you better not mess up! If you do, you can kiss being our pianist goodbye!"
"Sounds fair," his lips curl up and he casts his sights to the piano keys again. His grins slyly, looking up through the fringes of his silver hair. "What if I never mess up? What do I get then?"
"You get to keep your job," she deadpans and he stares at her for a second, wondering if his attempts at flirting were really that bad, when laughter break out among the girls. Maka whips her head towards them, seems to read something he can't, and stiffens, her entire back snapping straight and her face flushing red. It's adorable; he finds himself musing if he can get her that flustered one day.
She looks at him, glares as if this is all his fault, and sharply looks away, commanding order over the girls who giggle and whisper amongst themselves as they eye them both.
"Alright! Breaks over!" Maka shouts, her voice like a whip-lash. Even he straightens up, wary of what she can do if she can stretch like he saw the other girls stretch. "We're going to start from the top!" She looks over at him, regarding him with a smile for the first time since he walked in. He wonders if he passed some sort of test as she nods, the corner of her eyes crinkling with her smile, nothing like the cold front she had displayed previously, and shouts, "Soul, when you're ready!"
He starts from the top.