burned into my brain are these stolen images
by. Poisoned Scarlett
act four
There is fear.
The first time he is on stage, there is such a harrowing sense of impending disappointment and failure that he unbuttons two buttons on his dress shirt and takes off his blazer because it's too hot on stage all of a sudden, too bright and too loud. The curtains are drawn, an ominous inky black unlike the deep maroon he remembers, and the waxed wood paneled floor rests hard and unforgiving beneath the soles of his shoes. It reminds him too much of his parents estate. Everything does.
His fear begins hours before the performance; it starts with impatience and it follows with aggravation. He avoids most of the girls and scarcely talks to Marie unless it's of absolute importance. He needs only to take his place by the piano meanwhile the girls and other staff hurry to get everything in order. He spends most of the time rereading the sheet music, knowing every single line and staff and musical note on it by the fiftieth time. He doesn't recognize these old habits of folding and folding his sheet music, rolling and unrolling it, of crossing and uncrossing his ankles, until there is only an hour before the performance and it's a hectic mess backstage.
Then it hits him like a brick, these old habits finally dredging up memories of his youth.
He's scared.
He's scared and all he has to do is play the piano; he's practically out of sight for the audience, only his music bleeds through, yet he's so scared it disgusts him.
He watches Maka organize the girls in their respective order, barking out orders and diminishing the chaos enough for the staff to work on the more technical stuff. She has more to fear than him; she's center-stage, the music box ballerina, the green-eyed porcelain doll. She has more to fear yet there is only confidence in her stance, in her tone. Soul turns back to the piano, a baby Steinway actually, and any other time he would have admired it and perhaps belted out a tune for his own amusement. Tonight, he's only reminded of how much weighs on his shoulders. Responsibility hits him like a freight train and he has half a mind to stand up and call it all off because he is not Maka, he is not courageous, and his stomach feels like it's going to come out of his mouth. But one look at Maka, a look she catches and returns with a tiny smile of her own, and he's bolted to the piano bench.
"Soul!" someone shouts. It's Hiro; he works IT for the theater. He's running through the sheets on a clipboard, his walkie-talkie sounding like a malfunctioning radio, as he shouts: "You got two mins—do you have everything ready? Didn't forget anything?"
He jerks a shake in reply, manages to look casual by turning towards the piano before he could respond.
He prepares his sheet music mechanically, his jaw tight and his hands cold.
The burgundy curtains can blend in with shadows now and when the spotlight is set and everything is put in motion, they only become darker still. Soul sees his cue, Hiro waving his hand once, but he freezes up, his hands still above the keys, his mind racing with a plethora of notes and sounds. They don't make any sense; it's discord, it's horrible.
He doesn't remember.
And just like that, he's nine again and on stage for his first performance ever.
"Soul, you can do it! You're fine!"
Soul looks to find Maka stepping out of her spot, looking at him with those wide green eyes of hers. She smiles at him, ignoring the audience, ignoring the gaping mouths of the staff because she's ruining an otherwise perfect introduction. Her eyes are unlike his father's cold ones and he wonders if he had imagined them that day they first met three weeks ago. There is no way the girl who is looking at him right now can own such frightfully cold eyes, can remind him of his father in any way.
"Play!" she shouts and he turns back and he plays, panic drowning into calm which funnels into confidence.
And the curtains that retain old fears are beat for tonight.