In all of their years of living together, Soul never understood Maka's taste in music.

When she thought he wasn't listening, he would catch her jamming out to some techno garbage alone in her room, which he thought was both hilarious and just plain sad.

It was one of those dark, dreary October days when all you wanted to do was curl up with a cup of something hot and a warm blanket. Maka was doing exactly that when Soul decided to do something about her horrendous music education.

Soul tore the blanket away from her body, leaving her indignant and shivering.

"Hey, what are you doing?!" She clutched her mug of peppermint tea like it was life itself.

"Get up and follow me," he said.

"No way! Leave me alone! I just want to take a nap or something."

"You can do that later."

"This better be good," she said, sulkily walking after her partner.

They ended up in his room. For a boy, he was surprisingly neat, that is, except for his closet, which had dirty t-shirts and socks scattered all over. Band posters were hung on the walls, and his acoustic guitar (probably never even used) was sitting next to his desk.

"Soul," she whined loudly. "It's freezing in here. And where are you?! I don't even know what we're doing, anyway, I just wanna-"

He jumped up from behind her and slipped a pair of headphones over her ears. "I just needed to get these on you without you pitching a hissy fit."

"This is your music," Maka said. "You know I don't like this jazz stuff."

"My point exactly. You only want to listen to that electronic crap all the time."

"God! You're always criticizing me! I get it, okay? I don't know a lot about music. I really don't see the big deal though. Why does this matter, again?"

"I think it's time you learned something about it. And you know how music is a big part of me, so maybe it'll help us resonate better."

"Piano is different," she said doubtfully. "But if you really think it'll help…"

"Sure, why wouldn't it? And even if it doesn't, are you saying you don't want to spend quality time with your weapon? That hurts, Maka." He put a hand over his chest in mock-pain. "Besides, there's lots of piano in jazz." He found a song and played it for her.

Instead of ripping off the headphones and shouting profanities, she listened. "Oh. Yeah, I hear it."

"See? It's not so bad."

"Who is this?"

"Thelonious Monk."

"Anything else you can show me?"

At hearing those six words, Soul broke into a grin. "You bet."

He led her into the living room and moved the coffee table out of the way.

"What are you doing?"

"We need room to dance, don't we?"

"I thought you hated dancing," Maka said, watching him set up the iPod and its speakers. A loud, trumpet-based song began to play.

"Louis Armstrong," he said, taking her hand.

"Oh." Her cheeks felt slightly warm. "I don't know if I can dance… and, um, are the lights okay like this?" They were dimmed, and there were a couple of lighted candles placed randomly around the room. "What's with the candles?"

"Jazz is all about freestyle," Soul said seemingly out of nowhere, his body moving from side to side. His eyes were closed. "There aren't really any rules. You have to feel it. And then you just… play."

Maka reluctantly closed her eyes too. She heard what he was talking about. The bass was the only real consistent sound, everything else was all over the place. The piano, trumpet, saxophone, and other instruments she couldn't name were just adding to the happy, bouncy noises.

She heard Soul chuckle quietly and opened her eyes. "What?"

"You just have to feel the music. Like, with your soul. Get into it." He spun her around and laughed as she almost fell down.

"I like it," Maka admitted, swinging her hips to the beat cautiously. "I get why you like it, too."

"Oh? And why's that?" He tapped his foot.

"It's a big mess. But you can tell apart all of the different sounds. And when you put them back together, it sounds nicer than you first thought."

"I think you're starting to appreciate jazz, Miss Albarn."

After a while, Maka got used to dancing and even accomplished a spin.

"Tell me more, Mister Evans."

"Don't call me that," he reminded her.

"Mister Eater?"

"Now that just sounds weird."

"Fine. Tell me more, Soul."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything, I guess. I don't know a whole lot about it."

"Okay, well, it started in the early nineteen hundreds, in New Orleans. It made its way up around the rest of the world, and there's a lot of different genres of it, too… Basically there's a lot of instruments mixed together, usually featuring piano and trumpet a lot, and sometimes there's singing. Jazz is just about expressing yourself. It's a lot harder to explain than I thought it would be. Sorry."

"No, don't be. I think I got it. Who's your favorite artist?"

"I don't think I could choose just one."

"Then name all of them."

"Uh, Duke Ellington's pretty cool. And Nat King Cole. John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Chet Baker. I could go on..."

"I like it when you talk about this stuff," Maka said matching her steps with his.

"What do you mean?"

"You just seem really happy."

"Opposed to?"

"Being Soul."

"I'm not that bad, am I?"

"No! I just… you're usually so negative and bored. It's nice to see you get excited about something."

A few moments passed until Soul spoke again.

"You know, as much as I hated my old life, I've gotta admit, my parents and Wes introduced me to some cool stuff."

"Didn't they make you play classical?"

"Yeah, but if it wasn't for them, I would never have even known about music."

"Was it really that bad?" Maka asked. "Your old life?"

"You have no idea." He shook his head. "It wasn't the piano. It was the way they made me play it. If I showed any emotion or any sign of something that wasn't written on the sheet music, they freaked. When I wrote my own pieces, they were so shocked they had acted like I wasn't even part of their family. I was always the freak. 'Why can't you be more like Wes? Wes knows what he's doing. Wes is smart. Wes is talented. Wes is perfect.' They're probably glad I'm gone," he added bitterly.

"If they can't see how amazing their son is, they don't deserve to be called your family."

His head was down. Maka lifted his chin with her fingers. "Hey."

He looked at her, his ruby eyes full of hurt and… what was that, shame? Was he ashamed of running away from his past? Afraid of what they and his older brother would say?

As Maka stared at him, she saw not a sarcastic, arrogant, unfeeling teenager, but an insecure, miserable, restless little boy whose greatest fear happened to be the love of his own parents.

She felt his soul wavelength do a little jump as she took his hands in hers.

"Turn up the music. I think we need it louder."

Maka, still not sure about the whole "how the heck do I dance" thing, let Soul lead once again. A slower song came on, a sweet, slightly vibrato voice escaping from the speakers.

How I'd love to love you

How I'd love to kiss you

How'd I'd love to have you

For my very own

"Uh…" A blush was creeping its way up Soul's neck. "I can change the song, if you want."

"No. I like it."

Will you ever want me

The way I wanted you

Then say you'll always be with me

Till life is through

How I'd love to love you

There's no one above you

Let my arms enfold you

Through the cunning years

Though my lonely heart will always sing this song

Darling, how I'd love to love you from now on

As the song grew louder and the trumpets wailed, their dancing got more extravagant and their arms flew through the air. Soul kicked out his leg, then hit his shin on the table corner, making Maka giggle.

Though my lonely heart will always sing this song

Darling, how I'd love to love you

How I'd love to love you

How I'd love to love you from now on

The last verse was sung and they ended with a dip. The meister looked at her partner. His sad expression was gone and his eyes gleamed with light.

"My tea's cold," Maka complained, looking at the couch where she had been sitting what seemed like hours ago.

"I'll make some more." He went off to the kitchen. "So, how was Jazz 101 with Soul?" he called, putting on the tea kettle.

"Better than I expected," she called back.

"That's good to hear." He came back with two mugs.

"But seriously," she said, sipping her drink, "What was with the candles?"

"Jazz isn't complete without candles," he said simply, pulling her discarded blanket over himself.

"Blanket hog," she muttered, tugging it away from him. "And you just made that up. Candles aren't even a part of jazz."

Soul shrugged and drank his tea. "Maybe."