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It begins innocently enough. Soul has broken his pencil, and his good friend (who he maybe kind of sort of really likes in a not friend sort of way) has finished her exam predictably early and excused herself to the restroom, so he helps himself to her bag to find something else to write with.
Instead, he finds something wrapped in festive holiday paper with a card taped to the top, his name scrawled on the envelope with a heart drawn around it. A heart. What does that mean? Hell, why has she gotten him a gift? Sure it's the last day before winter break, but they never exchange holiday gifts.
Except, apparently, now they do.
Well, shit.
Soul manages to stop gaping into her bag like a hooked fish long enough to find a pencil and return to his half finished test.
Desperate times-he hasn't studied anyway, so he employs the Star method of exam taking and makes patterns in the bubbles, finishing quickly. He is handing in his own exam and excusing himself to the restroom when Maka returns. Offering her a small wave, he goes to seek the one person who might be able to get him out of this mess.
Blake "call me Black Star" Barrett is, rather predictably, in the boys bathroom, flexing in the mirror. With his eye-searingly blue hair, he is hard to miss. The kid spends half his time away from class, his inability to focus legendary, and the toilets are a favorite hangout for whatever reason. Personally, Soul hates them; they always reek of urine, shit, and cheap pot- foulness incarnate-and he'd rather hold his piss all day than step foot inside when he can help it. Most days, he can help it.
But again, desperate times. He has three classes until lunch, three classes to try to get Maka a present without her realizing he didn't have one to begin with, and Blake is the only person he knows with both a propensity to ditch and his own transportation.
"Eater, my man!" Star greets him with an overly enthusiastic clap on the shoulder, causing Soul to wince, "What brings you into my office this fine afternoon?"
Soul doesn't beat around the bush-doesn't even scoff at his friend equating the shitter with a workspace like he's fucking Fonzi-with Black Star, he'd be wasting his breath.
"Wanna ditch?"
"Seriously?" Star raises both eyebrows. "Won't Mak-"
"What she doesn't know won't hurt her." He grins sharply, and Star guffaws.
"Now that's what I like to hear!" he shouts. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand!"
They leave the bathroom as the bell rings, and Soul purposefully steers them away from Maka's regular path on their trek to the parking lot. They arrive soon enough, looking like they have every right to take off as they please as they approach Black Star's ride.
It's an electric blue motor scooter emblazoned with a yellow star emblem. Soul has given him shit for it a thousand times, and Star has defended it as a vehicle worthy of an aspiring deity just as often, and now Soul is about to ride bitch on the tiny thing like the little bitch he so clearly is.
Desperate, desperate times. If only Kilik were the ditching type-he actually has a car. But no, it's scooter or bust, so Soul swings his leg over after Star and fishes behind him for something to grip because no way in fuck is he gripping Star's waist; that would be crossing at least half a dozen lines he has no interest in being anywhere near. Just no. He doesn't even like hugging his own brother. Hugging Star, even out of necessity, would be tantamount to needing a dozen showers.
He finds the rack on the back and holds on tight, arms twisted awkwardly behind him. He knows they must look absurd-hell, Star looks absurd when he drives it alone-but his choices are this or no gift.
Soul takes his punishment like the masochist he is, sacrificing his cool card in the name of green eyes, ash blond pigtails, and a wide smile.
That she has legs to the moon and a penchant for wearing short schoolgirl skirts doesn't hurt, either.
"So, where to, bro?" Black Star tosses over his shoulder as Soul keeps his eyes firmly to the passing pavement, entirely ignoring the audible snickers from the loitering group of stoner kids they pass on their way out of the parking lot.
It's a fair question, but Soul shrugs because he really doesn't know. He only has a few hours to find the perfect gift for the girl who leaves his head spinning and his heart racing and his breath ragged and it doesn't help that he has no idea what she's gotten him.
Knowing Maka as well as he does, he guesses it isn't expensive but that it is thoughtful; it leaves him no closer to an answer.
"The mall," Soul finally grunts out, and Star laughs then shrugs. Normally, Soul wouldn't be caught dead within sight of a mall, especially not so close to the holidays. Desperate, desperate times. There are so many choices at the mall he figures he should be able to find her something.
Revving the engine loudly (well, for a scooter-it's a pretty sadly high pitched whine that comes out) as they exit the parking lot, Star peels away, leaving the increased snickers of the less than diligent students still hanging out in the dust.
The ride is more harrowing than Soul would admit on pain of death, both because Black Star drives like a fucking maniac, weaving in and out among much larger, faster vehicles, and because he can feel the open-mouthed stares of the spectators they pass all along the way. He is sure their laughs echo merrily within the walls of their own vehicles.
Shit, he'd be laughing too if he didn't want to cry.
Fortunately, the mall isn't far, and ten minutes later they arrive and pull in near the front where only two wheeled vehicles are privileged enough to park. Soul scrambles off the thing as soon as it halts, collecting his cool back as best he can while still standing next to what could easily be mistaken for a clown vehicle reject. Moving purposefully away and ignoring Star as he shoves his keys in his pocket and brags of his godly driving skills, Soul spots a large orange Harley and practically drools. Now that's a ride. Not for the first time, he vows to get a motorcycle when he's 18 and his parents can no longer stop him.
Would Maka be willing to ride with him? He really hopes she will. Having a cute girl (the girl, the only fucking girl) pressed to his back as he revs the engine of the mechanical beast beneath them both would be the apex of cool. Hell yeah.
A car honks at him as he crosses the parking lot, nearly hitting him in his daydream haze, and he flips it off with a sneer, almost more angry it's broken his fantasy than that it almost ran over his foot. He makes it to the curb safely in spite of it all and turns around to wait for his chauffeur for the day, who has apparently spotted a friend. Shit.
It's Tsubaki of all people. Soul hadn't realized she was back in town-it's easy to forget that college breaks start weeks before and last weeks after the pathetic high school variety when you aren't yet there. Star's had a crush on the tall Japanese transplant for as long as Soul can remember, and once she'd gone off to college this year, it had only gotten worse.
This could take awhile. Well, Star wasn't likely to be much help anyway for all he's known Maka the longest. Resigned, Soul walks back towards them, and Tsubaki, ever the people pleaser, beams his way.
"Hey, Tsu," he waves. "Sorry to interrupt-hope college is goin' good an' all-but I really gotta go get something, so I'll just let you two catch up."
He looks to Star.
"I'll text you when I'm done."
"Yeah, whatever bro, do your thing," Star says with a dismissive little wave of the hand.
Tsubaki smiles at him again. "Maybe I'll catch you later at Kilik's thing?"
"Uh, yeah, maybe." He scratches his head, stifles the urge to shrug, and walks off. He and Tsubaki have always been friendly since she is good friends with Maka, but they are more acquaintances than anything, and Soul never knows quite what to say to her. She's far too nice-though not in a fake way-and they really have little in common other than moving in similar circles.
Besides, he has no plans to attend Kilik's party. He hates parties. Though with Tsubaki in town and going, Maka will probably go, too.
Well, fuck.
Putting it out of his mind because he has bigger fish to fry, damnit, he approaches the mall. It's warm outside, Death City tends to be warm during the day even in the dead of winter, and the cool air conditioning feels nice on his face as he enters his personal hell. Row upon row of colorful shops spread out before him in a neat array, like a retail smorgasbord, and now that he's here, he has no clue where to start and only-he digs his phone from his pocket and notes the time-shit-an hour and a half to get what he's come for, at best.
He's pretty much screwed, he knows that, but he also has a bit of a stubborn streak and refuses the admit defeat just yet. He will find something. Something she will love. Something that would be good for a friend but also hint at more without screaming it. Something that shows her how he feels if she's looking for it.
Soul hopes she's looking for it, but he's never been sure. Sometimes he thinks she's flirting with him, even. Then again, she's Maka, and she has always been playful with her friends, and he just doesn't know. Maybe he sees what he so desperately wants to see, reads signs that don't exist or misreads signs of more innocent things. Platonic things.
Well, he'll live with that if he has to, but it'd be pretty great if it turns out the signs are actual signs and he's read them right.
Not that he's ever had that kind of luck before.
He walks through the mall in a daze, passing by dozens of shops and entering none. Video games. Shoes. Clothes. Purses. Chocolates. Makeup. Lotions. Lingerie. He passes that one quickly-it's far too evocative for his current peace of mind and future dreams-but lingers at the bookstore window. He could get her a book, but that's the easy way out and he wants to get her something she won't expect, something that sends a message.
The mall is pretty crowded for a weekday morning-Soul blames Christmas-though most of the patrons are either over sixty or mothers carting around children too young for school. Soul sees one with a face full of snot lick her upper lip clean and gags, stifling the urge to vomit into the nearest garbage receptacle. Even several years of being subjected to Black Star's brand of humor haven't inured him to the gag power of young children. He should never, never breed.
Does Maka want kids, he wonders idly as he stifles another gagging cough. He stifles that thought as well because they aren't even 18, aren't anything like dating, and such thoughts should be in the distant future. And maybe never. Probably never.
This was a mistake. He can't possibly find a gift to express his feelings, especially not in the 11th hour, and even if he could and she actually gets the message, it might just make things weird. He should just-leave. Or maybe buy himself a cookie and leave. At least then he wouldn't feel like he'd ridden bitch on a fucking scooter for nothing.
Sweet Oblivion is near the center of the mall, so Soul makes a turn and heads that way. It has a line because it always has a line-their shit is good-so he looks around as he waits, bored. There is a jewelry store across the way, his own reflection staring back at him in their shining glass doors from his place at the rear of the line. He looks bored, surly even, in ripped jeans, a band t shirt, and worn leather. The striking mop of white screams old biker or young punk, hard to tell from the distance. Good thing he can't see that his eyes are red from so far away. He might actually scare himself. No wonder people are giving him such a wide berth. Sometimes, because he doesn't go out much (on purpose because people mostly sort of suck) and is usually around friends or people who are long inured to his odd appearance, he forgets how strange he actually looks.
Thanks mom and dad. Those albino genes are the best.
Tired of scowling at himself, his eyes shift to the display in the window. Soul can't see the jewelry from so far but the sign is pretty eye catching:
Get the gift that is really her.
Is there such a gift, and at a jewelry store no less?
Probably not. Maka isn't really the jewelry type in any case. Someone gets in line behind him and he turns around, noting he's far closer to the counter. Maybe he'll go look at the display while he eats his cookie. It couldn't hurt.
He orders a jumbo triple chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie-no wait, make that two since Maka likes them-and smiles when he realizes they're still warm. The attendant flinches a bit at that (sometimes he also forgets his too sharp teeth are intimidating) but hands him his change, so Soul moves away with his treasure and strolls languidly towards the jewelry shop as he nibbles on warm deliciousness.
It turns out the "gift that is really her" is a charm bracelet, and an overpriced one at that. The charms on this particular version scream middle aged woman to him, not Maka-lots of cute animals and jeweled beads-but the description promises they have charms to suit the interests and personality of every woman.
Well then.
He finds himself drifting inside. His parents' charge card has been collecting dust of late. At worst, she'll hate it and his parents will be stuck with the bill.
"Can I-help you?" The man looks him up and down with a sneer. Soul sighs and reflexively pulls a grey beanie out of his pocket to cover his wild mop of hair. Sometimes it helps. Usually, it's seeing his parents' elite platinum card that does the trick, though. He digs in his wallet and slides it onto the counter along with his license.
"Ah, Mr. Evans!" The man perks up. "What is it I can help you with?"
"The bracelet display outside. It said there are other charms?"
"Ah, yes, of course!" The man slides over a few feet along the glass display case between them and pulls out several velvet lined trays full of very small, very shiny objects. "We carry the entire line here at To Die For. Is there something in particular you were looking for?"
"Well, uh," he scratches his head and frowns. "This girl likes books. A lot. And she's really athletic-"
"Oh, the bookworm charm!" He pulls out a small silver charm with a red lacquered book inlaid with a small diamond.
Would Maka like that? He glances at the wall clock. He's got less than an hour left-she'd better. "Yeah, that's great," he says, though he knows his voice is less than enthusiastic. "Maybe-uh-something with music, too?"
The man smiles broadly and pulls out a small silver music note, also inlaid with diamonds. Soul can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes.
"Yeah, that's good, too. And I need the base bracelet-"
"Of course, Mr. Evans. Do you know the young lady's wrist size?"
Soul blinks at him. Does he? Sort of. He hears a gasp and whispers from across the store but ignores it. Girls are weird about jewelry.
"About this big?" He holds out his thumb and forefinger and points to an ending space along it.
"Ah, she has small wrists, but we do have the right size in stock, I think. Will there be anything else?"
"Uh-is there something that would maybe be for a girl you really like who is just a friend? I don't know-"
"Wes Evans?" Soul turns around, surprised at hearing his brother's name, and sees half a dozen college aged girls staring at him.
"Oh my god it is him!"
Shit.
"I have just the thing-" the jeweler begins.
"Great, put it together, keep the card for now and charge it, I'll be back soon to pick it up-need it wrapped too, thanks-" he's backing towards the door as he talks, the girls moving towards him with wide, predatory smiles.
Shit shit shit.
He turns and makes a run for it, slamming the door rudely in their faces as he bolts. No time to look around or think up a plan, so he makes his way back towards where he'd come from. There's a bathroom back that way and surely even Wes's rabid fangirls wouldn't follow him into the men's room.
Goddamn Wes.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Soul is a pro at dodging overzealous fans. He looks a lot like his brother, even if Wes's eyes are burgundy brown and his hair white blonde rather than stark white, and it's far from the first time he's been mistaken for the elder Evans.
Being the younger brother of a universally adored pop violinist is a pain in the ass in more ways than one.
Fucking Wes.
He hears squeals not far back and makes a detour into a major department store. Maybe he can lose them in the labyrinth of perfume and overpriced clothes. He ducks around a few corners and thinks he might have made his escape, but no, there is more squealing, so he turns another few corners then moves out of the store. The bathroom comes into his view and he bolts inside, hoping they either didn't see him or that if he spends awhile inside they will go away.
Probably he will have no such luck. Soul digs out his phone. Forty minutes until lunch. He is so so so fucked.
Camping out in a stall in the men's room is far from ideal. He waits through a dozen guys pissing. When one comes into the stall beside his and he hears then smells something unholy, he's had enough. He bolts from the bathroom and crap, there's the fan squad huddled across from the door.
"Wes!" They shriek with one voice.
"I'm not fucking Wes!" he screams back over his shoulder, but it doesn't deter them. He digs out his phone as he runs, texting Star to have the scooter ready-he nearly trips at the effort of running and texting and does slam into a rather large, affronted looking man. "Er, sorry," Soul offers sheepishly as he takes off, the girls gaining on him.
"Hey, wait, ya rude little bastard!" the guy bellows back, and suddenly, Soul has yet another person on his tail.
This trip was such a fucking mistake.
Bursting into the jewelry store, Soul sees that the stunned attendant has a lovely gold bag on the counter next to his card and license, so he grabs them all up with a breathless thanks just as the crowd after his blood (or maybe his underwear, he thinks with a shudder) are approaching the door. Luckily, the place has two exits, so he runs for the one not pressed with girls and slams it behind him, his phone mercifully chiming "Turn Down for What," Black Star's text tone.
lunch w tsu keys in seat u scratch u die
Fuck.
Can he drive a scooter? He has a driver's license, sure, but he rarely gets to drive and he's never driven anything on two wheels for all his talk about wanting a Harley.
Oh god this is bad. He's gonna die, parted out as souvenirs to a pack of overly hormonal coeds.
His only comfort is that he will haunt Wes for eternity for this indignity.
Somehow he reaches the entrance to the mall intact, tearing out from the doors like a bat out of hell.
Maybe he can make it. Maybe he can-
He reaches the scooter, crossing the little strip of parking lot, heedless of cars and life and limb, slams open the seat, grabs the keys, shoves in his gift bag, and hears the pounding of feet and shouts of his brother's name.
Soul turns the key in the ignition and the scooter starts, but it's already over. No way this thing outruns the hulking guy pounding towards him or the pack of girls with him-when had they picked up more? He swears there are over a dozen now.
"I'm gonna teach ya some manners ya rude little shit!" the man bellows, and the prominent "No Future" tattoo over his shaved left brow seems prophetic just now.
Then there are indignant shouts. Then a dozen girls are jumping the massive wall of man meat only a few feet away. Then said wall of man meat is covered in punching, kicking, screaming girls.
"Run Wes!" One pops up to scream. "We won't let him hurt you!"
Soul blinks, revs the scooter, puts it into gear and complies, taking off with a shaky start.
It's sort of like riding a bike. Sort of. With other cars to worry about, a throttle, a break, and a mechanism to shift from neutral to low to high. Soul forgets about shifting to high at first and panics that the thing is moving slow even for its pathetic norm. He glances over his shoulder as he reaches the street, ignoring the people pile in the distance that is now ringed by security.
Chugging down the street, Soul glances at his phone. Twenty minutes till lunch. Somehow, someway, he'll just make it. He grins at his luck and ignores the catcalls from a car full of twenty somethings towards his completely uncool ride. It saved his hide so he figures he owes it one.
He continues on his way, eager to get to school for once. But time is ticking by and he's going so slow. Then he finally recalls high gear, clicks it, and takes off so abruptly he nearly wipes.
Barely righting himself, he drives the rest of the way and pulls up only a few minutes after lunch has started, parking the scooter and pocketing the keys as he grabs his prize from inside the seat then bolts for the cafeteria.
Breathless and panting as he reaches their normal table, Soul ignores the stares of their crowd as he slides next to Maka.
She blinks at him. "You okay?" she sounds concerned. "Kilik said you weren't in class."
"I'm fine." He glares across the table to his former friend, who has the decency to look embarrassed. "Felt a little off so I didn't make it to class. I'm fine now."
"You sure?" Maka looks skeptical, eying the empty space where his lunch should be. "Aren't you gonna eat?"
Eat? Fuck no, he feels like he might toss the one cookie in his stomach as it is, he's so damned frazzled. His palms are sweating and he realizes he's nervous. What if she hates it? What if she hates him? But that card-with a heart even. She can't hate him.
"Nah, had something earlier," he hedges.
"Ah, good. You mind taking a walk with me? I'm sort of done too and it's a nice day."
"Uh." He scratches his neck; wishing he didn't have such an obvious tell, he shoves the hand in his pocket. "Sure. If you want." The little gift bag his jacket hides weighs heavily. He shouldn't give it to her. It's a mistake. All of this-
Maka is standing, holding a hand out to help him up. He doesn't let go as he stands and neither does she and he ignores the murmurs and knowing looks his friends toss their way as they leave the cafeteria.
Still holding his hand-it's warm and sweaty but so is his, and he doesn't care anyway-she drags him under a tree to the side of the quad they have long since staked as theirs, and stops.
"Sorry to drag you out but-um-" She looks nervous as she fidgets with the edge of her skirt and doesn't quite meet his gaze. "I sort of got you something. With break and all I wasn't sure I'd see you, so-"
Sliding off her book bag, she digs inside and pulls out the card and wrapping he spotted earlier. On closer inspection, he notices the paper is white sharks with Santa hats. Cute.
When she shoves it at him, Soul doesn't hesitate but opens it. The card is a generic grumpy kitten with a santa hat of its own. There is no printed message but she's written:
To my favorite person.
Love, Maka
Not wanting to linger on those words-he will linger enough later-he tears into the paper. There are two things inside, and he tries to make sense of them.
One is a picture frame, inlaid with a colorful collage of photographs. All of them have him or her or them together, sometimes with their friends, sometimes alone, but mostly just the two of them. Soul wonders how she collected so many; he hates being photographed and avoids cameras whenever possible. They all appear candid. Explains why he looks so damned happy in most of them. They both do.
"We're graduating in the spring and I wanted you to have something to remember me," she interrupts his thoughts.
"As if I could forget. As if you're getting rid of me that easily," he scoffs, and her return smile is beaming.
"The other one-well-" she colors, embarrassed again. He shifts his hands so he's gripping the second object on top, a green leather book. He opens it and there's a note from her just inside.
To my Soul. Because you asked.
"What is this?" He looks up, confused, then turns the page and looks down.
The page is full of neat calligraphy lines. It's a poem entitled "Resonance."
"You always tease me about writing poetry-" her voice is quiet. He flips the page. The next poem is called "Exorcism." Soul notices there are foreign characters in the margins-probably Japanese-and wonders what they mean. He really wants to know what they mean. "But a few months ago when we were talking-really talking-about music and poetry, you said you wanted to read mine. So um, there it is."
She'd made him a book of her poetry. Shit. Shit. He bought her a shitty bracelet and she'd given her a part of herself because he damn well knows she never shows this to anyone, sort of like him and-and-
Yes, piano.
"I, uh, got you something too, but we have to go somewhere first." He grabs her hand and she looks surprised but doesn't protest. Dragging her across the quad, they arrive at the performing arts building and he guides her into a practice room, blissfully empty during lunch. It has a piano which is all he cares about.
"Soul, what are you-"
"This is for you," he pulls out the now slightly crumpled bag.
"And this required going to a music room why, exactly?" She raises both eyebrows.
"It doesn't-it's not your main gift."
"Oh-kaaaay," she says but opens it anyway. It is a lovely thing, even with just three charms. "Oh Soul, it's so pretty! The book is for me, right? And the note for you! And and-" her face falls as she looks at the third charm. "Oh."
It is the letters LYLAS engraved in a silver heart. What now?
"Thanks, bro."
Bro? Is she fucking Black Star now? What does that even mean, LYLAS? What-
Oh-oh fuck-
"Ah! Shit, the jeweler-" he sputters. "He put the wrong charm-I'm sorry, we can-uh-trade it in-but uh- that's not it!"
Fuck, he is drowning-she is upset-she does not love him like a brother, clearly. Maybe she-loves him like something else?
Hope swells, then crashes. Well, if she does, he probably just ruined it. Time to fix this shit show. Or make it worse.
Soul doesn't say anything, just sits at the piano and starts to play. It's the song he's been writing all his life, the one that is him, and he knows the opening is dark. He hopes she understands. His life had been so dark, the prep school loner, the albino freak with a brother complex who strong-armed his parents into sending him to public high school.
It was the best decision he'd ever made. With public school had come real friends who helped him see he was worth a shit. With public school had come her.
The song becomes slower and lighter. It changes as he has changed, as he is still changing. It speaks of green eyes and ash blonde pigtails, of a bright smile, a glare that could shatter glass, and a mean right hook. It speaks of long nights and loud days, of books and of music.
By the end it is the darkness that is barely there, a thread of pure hope stifling it, nearly smothering it.
Soul is sweating, nearly shaking, when he's done. He's performed for others before, been forced to for much of his life, but never like that, never the song that is his very soul.
There is clapping from a single set of hands, slow then faster. He feels a hand on his shoulder.
"That was amazing!" Maka breaths out as she slides next to him on the bench.
He turns to her with a rueful smile. "That was me and-well-you, really. Uh, us. Sort of." His hand is on his neck again, his eyes have found the piano keys, and his stomach is in his throat, sick sick sick. He is so damned stupid, for saying that, for doing this, for-
Her hand finds his on his neck and stills it, moves it, clasps it in her warm lap.
"That was really sweet of you, brother," she said lightly and he groans.
"It's the wrong charm," he grits out.
"I know." She squeezes his hand gently and her voice is soft, so soft. He chances a look at her face and her smile is just as soft. "You should read the poems. They are also me and you." The smile spreads, suddenly mischievous, as she continues, "Besides, I've seen the way you stare at my ass when you think I'm not looking."
He goes stark red, he can feel it, but her grinning mouth is leaning, leaning, leaning and suddenly he feels her lips, sticky sweet with gloss as they meet his, and he doesn't give a shit anymore. It's far too brief, a press of the lips that doesn't last more than thirty seconds. It's everything. She gets up, grabs her bag.
"Maka," he says helplessly.
"We're gonna be late to class!" she says quickly, apologetically. "Walk me home?" she says, voice breathy, almost fragile.
Soul has a moment of sheer inspiration, a half fantasy made real. "Better-I'll drive you!"
"Deal!" she says happily. Then she's gone, and he's left gaping, staring after her, trying to piece together this impossible, inevitable, wonderful turn of their lives.
He pats his keys in his pocket as he strolls after Maka, his own class nowhere near hers.
Black Star has practice today and he's going to kill him when he finds his scooter gone, and they are going to look just as ridiculous as any two people on a scooter inevitably do, but at the thought of Maka pressed up against him all the way home, he really can't find it in himself to care.