burned into my brain are these stolen images
by. Poisoned Scarlett
act seven, scene one
She moves like sex.
He has difficulty focusing on the music sheet that sits on the rest in front of him. He has difficulty moving his hands, fingers second-guessing themselves. His eyes stray to the far right, watching her spin elegantly in the way ballerinas do, with a grace he hasn't seen since his passed mother. Her arms reach above her, the lights bathe her in a soft glow, and he watches fingers pick at the bun at the top of her head. Her hips are full and curve down to long legs that make his hands burn, make his teeth clench to catch his tongue before he licks his lips.
Threads of soft blonde fall down her neck, her shoulder blades, her back. He stops because he has made too many mistakes to bother anymore and she has paused her dance, running her fingers through her hair instead. Her nipples are hard through her shirt, barely concealed by the thin fabric, and it makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth when she reaches higher and they perk obediently. The sleeves of her black shirt tighten around her shoulders, lifts to reveal the barest hint of skin by her midriff, and he looks at the piano keys when she meets his eyes through the mirror.
This is not one of his smartest ideas, accompanying her through long nights of vigorous practice. Tsugumi only came for two nights before she stopped, often with the excuse that her boss called her into work. But Maka stays anyway and he stays because he promised to play for her. She also lets him stay and he considers it a privilege to watch her fall, watch her misstep, watch her curse and fist her hands and do it again until she gets it right. She lets him be privy to her imperfection yet no matter what she says or what she does, he still can't see it. She reminds him too much of the perseverance he always wished he possessed, the strength and courage to plow through obstacles and obstructions that seem otherwise impossible. She is everything he wished he had been in his youth and now she serves as a reminder that it is possible. That if she can do it, he can do it, and he likes to think of her whenever he feels the urge to give up.
The only reason he regrets staying with her so late at night is because of these moments, when his hands feel like they're too much and his loins ache for the feel of her skin, the heat of her. He can't just sit and play like he thought he could, not when just her usual stretches get him all hot and bothered.
"We done for the night?" He gruffs.
"I think I have it down," she says with satisfaction. "One more night of this and we can move onto the next scene!"
He immediately closes the lid on the keys. He picks up the sheet music and organizes it, flicking his eyes to her briefly. She has knelt down to untie the ribbons of her shoes and she carefully removes both and places them neatly beside her. She sits on the floor with her legs bowed and her shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling with a sigh.
"You alright?"
"Tired," she answers, casting a glance at his hands. He shoves them in his pockets as he approaches her. "Don't your fingers get tired from playing the piano so much?"
He shrugs. "I'm used to it. You don't get tired practicing all day?"
"I've been in ballet since I was six," she admits nostalgically. He looks at her and she brings her legs in, wrapping her arms around them. She beckons him down and he kneels. She points at her ankle, the scar that runs around it. "You heard the girls talking about it, right? Well, when I eleven I broke my ankle trying to hold a stance. It was so bad that I had to get surgery, and my mama thought I would never dance again. Rehabilitation was awful," her eyes darken with the memory, "and the doctors told me if I danced, I could permanently cripple myself."
"You're still dancing."
"Something like this isn't going to hold me back!" She smiles confidently and he quirks his lips up as well. "That's why the girls use it as a motivational story! I'll dance until I can't, just like you would play until you couldn't anymore!"
After a second of deliberating her words, he confesses: "I hate the piano."
Maka looks at him with surprise. "But you told me you've been playing since you were a toddler…and you volunteered to play here, with us. Right?"
"I hate the piano," he repeats. "That doesn't mean I'm not good at it. Those are two different things."
"If you hate it then why are you still playing it?"
"Pays good," he shrugs and she presses her lips together, disapprovingly. He straightens up and looks at the door, deciding that now is a good time as ever to tell her what he had been meaning to. "I like to watch you dance. You told me once that you wanted to be perfect at it and, y'know, the...real reason I decided to take up the piano again is because when I first saw you dance," he hesitates here, adamant not to look at her as he speaks. Once he has the words in proper order he continues: "When I first saw you dance, I thought I saw perfection. It was for a second, but I saw it. That's what you have that the others don't. Even if it's just for a split second, I see it every time you dance," he rubs the top of his nose, clearing his throat and regretting his less than cool words right afterwards. He mumbles a quick goodbye and it's when he is halfway out the door that she shouts:
"I like to hear you play, too!"
He turns as the door closes. It's just a slit but he can see her, knelt on the floor with her hair falling down her face, her doll-eyes wide. There is an emotion on her face that reminds him the warmth he always sees when she is performing, something that makes his chest tight and his hands sweat, and the smile she gives him confirms the deepening affection he has for her.
"I don't want you to stop—!" is the last thing he hears before the door slams shut. He deliberates going back inside to tell her that it's different for him; there is no split second of musical perfection, it's all fanciful mimicry. He does not possess the perfection that she does or, rather, the ability to pursue it like she can. That's why he'll stop after she accepts the offer from that famous playhouse in New York. He'll stop because the only reason he started was because of her. He hears rapid footfalls all of a sudden and his head snaps up. He quickly reaches for the door behind him and pulls himself into it just as she opens hers, footfalls running from him until they become faint.
He peers out of the door and finds the hall empty. Soul walks out and closes the door behind him, leaning against it and running his fingers through his hair. It's not right, how hung up he is over her. She hasn't even left yet and he can already feel the needle-like pricks of separation. He's just decided that it's not worth the extra effort to be close to her if she's leaving so soon when his downcast eyes meet familiar pink soft shoes. He snaps his head up, surprised she had figured it out so soon.
"Mak—" but she shushes him, her cheeks an endearing pink. The way she's looking at him, with a determination usually reserved for her performances, only further confuses him. But he stays silent, watching her watch him, and it's only when she takes a step forward that he reacts. He drops his eyes to her hand, which presses into his chest, and when he looks back up, she is confident in the same way she is confident when she guides the girls through the moves of the dance.
"...What're you doing?"
"Just stay still. Don't move!" Her hand goes from his chest to his shoulder, the other following, and then she swallows, nervousness spilling back into her green eyes, and he has a feeling of just what she's going to do. He leans a little closer and she stands on her toes, pecking his cheek quickly but not quickly enough: he moves so their mouths meet and when he jerks back, anticipating a hard whack on his head and maybe a kick in the gut, he holds his breath when she just stares at him, cheeks lit up scarlet.
It's not smooth and it's more than a little awkward but she leans up and he leans down, nose brushing hers, and when he lets her slant her mouth against his everything else just fades into the background.
And then he decides it doesn't matter if she's leaving soon: he'll always be there, waiting, because waiting is something he does best.