by Chayden » 08/20/2011 3:06 AM
In the black-and-grey pinstriped suit that he was always, somehow, dressed in there, he would sit in the leather armchair once dominated by his inner demon an prepare to play the piano. Their special brand of resonance, along with the success of the mission, rested on his willingness to bang out his heart on the ivory keys, place his emotions out in the air and simply be, trusting Maka implicitly to swing him just right and leave the swirling ball of red and hatred hanging in space especially for him. He wished that he could sit somewhere more enjoyable, perhaps in front of a fireplace on a frigid winter's day, drawing silly little faces in the condensation of a windowpane, instead of the silently violent surroundings he was forced into. The grey closet still frightened him, as did the imposing doors and the black nothingness he knew lay beyond them, as they brought back scenes from his past that Soul knew he could do without. The little red demon who danced to his own pace despite the tacky jazz continuously droning in the background lived there, a tiny, destructive piece of himself that was a threat to Maka's well-being.