This is my entry for Resbang 2015! A super special thanks to Proma and ilana for betaing and to Julie, Kat, Amanda, Laura, Lunar, and Bendy for giving me suggestions, comments, funny gifs, and support through the whole process. Hugs and smooches to the best artist-chans in the world, Amanda and Krib (kribart on tumblr). Do not walk, do not jog, RUN to see their art and listen to their music for this fic.

The Language of Letting Go is an actual book by Melody Beattie. The song The Language of Letting Go was written and performed by Amanda (sojustifiable on tumblr), so please be sure to listen to it when you read Chapter 7! Don't Write Me Off belongs to the movie Music & Lyrics. The Girl in the Black Trenchcoat is an original piece by me. No boybands were harmed in the making of this fic.

Soul Evans is an uninspired musician trying to run away from his embarrassing and sordid boy band past. Maka Albarn is a writer who would sell her soul to escape the shadow of her famous author father. Together they form an unlikely team to compose a hit song for pop goddess Kim Diehl, but with Soul's secretive nature, Maka's distrust of men, and a hearty helping of meddling from well meaning older brother and manager Wes Evans, will they make beautiful music together or fall completely flat? [Music & Lyrics AU] - [warnings for adult language, alcohol use, non-graphic sexual content]

Chapter 1: No Strings Attached

The Eagles' Witchy Woman startled Soul Evans awake from a fitful slumber.

His response to the ringtone was positively Pavlovian, except instead of drooling, he burrowed deeper into his flannel sheets in a pathetic attempt to block out the world. The cellphone rang incessantly, and although Soul wanted to smother himself by the time the chorus rolled around for the fifth time just to end his suffering, he ignored it in favor of stuffing a pillow over his face.

The ringing stopped after the seventh chorus and his cellphone beeped once, informing him, way too cheerfully for seven in the morning, that he had a voicemail.

Soul steeled himself, reached for the phone, and clicked on his mailbox.

"Hello, Solomon." Soul winced. His mother was full-naming him and that was never a good sign. "This is your mother. Remember, you have one."

There was nothing like a hearty helping of Jewish guilt to start his day. He sighed, deeply, pained, but continued listening. "Your father and I are worried about you, tateleh. You haven't called us in a week. I know you're still upset about the poor record sales from your last album but it's time to move on. I bet you haven't shaved in weeks. Do you think people will buy your music if you look like a schlub?"

Welcome to the age of lovable, scruffy hipsters, Ma.

"I'm sending your brother over to check on you. And for God's sake, can you talk some sense into Wes? If I see one more magazine article about him dating this lingerie model or having a scandalous affair with that married actor… tell him he's slowly killing me -"

He tossed the phone to the other side of his king sized bed and got comfortable once more. If Soul wanted to wallow in his self hatred, that was his God given right as a musician and no one, not his mother, not his brother, was going to stop him. His mother, a musician herself, should have understood the excruciating pain of selling out by writing "popular" music. To add insult to injury, the complete lack of enthusiasm over said horrendous album was enough to make the already introverted Soul want to join the priesthood and maybe hole himself up away from humanity until he died, lonely, pathetic, with no platinum records to speak of.

Soul Evans, the piano prodigy who sold his soul and integrity to corporate America to cash in on the boy band craze as a pre-teen, they would say on the MTV special about his life. Not nearly enough talent to carry himself into adulthood, washed up before the age of thirty-five, couldn't even make it by riding on the coattails of his family's success.

Soul wasn't even a has-been. He was, to quote the greatest sports movie of all time, The Mighty Ducks, a never-was.

So if he wanted to sulk, he was going to sulk.

He fell back asleep only to be awoken again, this time by the scent of his brother's preferred expensive brand of cologne and the sound of his designer shoes scuffing up Soul's hardwood floor that jarred him back into the land of the living.

"Good morning, starshine," Wes Evans said cheerfully. "I made coffee."

"Fuck off, Wes," Soul growled.

"Is that any way to talk to your favorite, loving, concerned brother?" Wes asked.

Soul rolled over to squint at him. "You're only here to get Mom off your ass about your latest scandal with… Jesus, I can't even keep track anymore. A tennis instructor? The President's wife? You're gross. Go away."

Wes loomed over Soul, smile just as bright as ever. Soul hated him so, so much. It just wasn't natural to be that happy before noon. "True, but I'm also worried about you. It's not healthy to lie around and pout." He sniffed. "You also need a shower and shave, little brother."

He chucked a pillow at Wes' perfect, handsome face. "You can't tell me what to do."

"You need to get up and start working on that song for Kim Diehl. She's the hottest thing in pop music and you're lucky that she finds your surly 'too cool for you' awkwardness charming," Wes stated. "Good thing she was a fan of 2Kool4Skool."

Soul burrowed deeper in the blankets. "I told you never to bring up that stupid group. It's dead to me."

The older Evans brother slipped his fingers under Soul's mattress. "You only have a few weeks to write the song that she's going to sing at her concert. You wanted to get back on the map, didn't you?"

"Not by writing stupid pop songs. I'm done with that life."

Without ceremony, Wes flipped the mattress off of the bedframe, taking Soul down with it. Soul yelped as he hit the floor with a thump and got tangled up in his blankets. "Get up. Shower. Shave. Drink your coffee. Get to the piano and start writing. Sometimes adults have to do things they don't like. That's life. But the end will justify the means. Once you get back some of that name recognition, you can do your own stuff. Trust me, I know these things."

Soul's hand rose slowly from behind the bed frame, middle finger high in the air.

"Really? Is that how you're going to thank me for saving your career?" Wes crossed his arms over his chest. "I just so happen to have a great opportunity for you to simultaneously pimp out Kim's new song and endear yourself to fans, old and new. Have you ever heard of The Hunger Games?"

Soul pushed himself off of the floor and brushed himself off, running his hand through his wild hair. "You're going to pit me against other musicians, last one standing wins? Sounds preferable to the usual meet and greets. Unless the rabid fangirls grabbing at my junk are still a factor - then I'll have to decline."

"No, you smartass. It's a televised cooking competition for B-list celebrities," Wes flicked Soul's forehead none too gently.

"B-list?"

"I'm being generous," Wes said. Awesome. Soul loved it when Wes reminded him that the older Evans was indeed the Justin Timberlake of the group while Soul was the one with the ugly, appropriative 90s white guy dreads who no one remembered. "This isn't optional, by the way. You're doing it."

Shrugging on a t-shirt, Soul waved Wes off. "You can't make me."

"It's either this or I tell Mom that you're ready to get married and settle down. I hear Mrs. Feinstein's daughter is available. Or, hey, maybe she'll sign you up for J-Date!" J-Date. The Jewish singles dating website where dreams go to die and desperate women over thirty-five are abundant. "We know just how much you love meeting randos on the internet and being forced into social situations."

Soul was horrified. He could almost hear his mother now: But honey, don't you think you should at least try one of those singles dances? He would never survive. "You wouldn't."

Wes smiled benevolently. "Wouldn't I, though?"

"You're a dick and if you ever need a kidney, I'm not giving you mine," Soul relented with a whine.

His brother strolled into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and crunched down on a freshly made slice of bacon. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."

The Hunger Games was, Soul soon learned, a very strange combination of a Food Network cooking competition, an MTV reality show, and American Idol.

No singing was involved, thank God, but the contestants would still have to impress not only a panel of judges but the fans who would be casting their votes to keep their favorite celebrities on the show. Soul would also, he learned conveniently only seconds before they arrived at the studio, be forced to stay in a "dorm" of sorts with his competition, and he was sure that through some very creative editing, he would find himself at the center of at least four different love triangles. At least.

Soul truly hoped that the esteemed panel was impressed by his microwaving skills and his ability to cook eggs sixteen different ways because that was the extent of his kitchen prowess. Wes reassured him that his popularity and nostalgia factor would keep him in the running, but Soul didn't think one tacky hit pop song from the late 90s was going to save him from public humiliation and perhaps jail time for killing innocent people with biological weapons disguised as food.

But what the hell, right? Soul had already hit rock bottom with a botched attempt at a solo album. There was nowhere to go but up.

Most of his new housemates looked familiar. Some were old pop stars, like him, or former child actors who lost their appeal after puberty and would kill a man for another chance at stardom. Others were athletes or directors or nerdy tech app builders - probably slightly more successful people who had time to kill or an agenda to push. Not that Soul could really judge; he was only here to casually drop the name of Kim's new song and get the hell out of there.

Soul was not a social creature by nature but he still managed to coolly greet some of the others before ducking away to spend time alone in his new room, dropping his luggage on the ground thoughtlessly. It was fairly large with a queen sized bed, television, computer, desk, and spacious closet. He didn't have to share the space like some college kid, though rumor had it all ten competitors would share a kitchen and a "confession" room where they could talk shit and cry. It all sounded completely uncool and asinine - if Soul had it his way, he would be sent home the first week. Just enough time to "casually" mention Kim's song, The Language of Letting Go (named after some corny self help book she wouldn't shut up about, God help him), and be on his merry way.

Unfortunately the room lacked any sort of fridge (he bet some of the more high maintenance C-listers would be calling their mediocre agents tonight or taking to Twitter to complain), which meant that Soul would have to risk socializing to grab something to eat. He heaved himself off of the bed with a sigh and crept into the kitchen, hoping to avoid any awkward human contact. He wasn't good with strangers.

He wasn't good with anyone really.

It looked like the coast was mostly clear. The only other person in the kitchen was a short, lithe familiar-ish looking blond girl with some of the most attractively muscled biceps and shoulders he had ever seen. She was probably an athlete - Olympic gymnast, maybe, given how compact she was - and she only looked up from her sandwich to give him a small smile and a nod of recognition. Cautiously, Soul nodded back and quickly stuck his head in the refrigerator to avoid any conversation.

Women were, for the most part, nothing but trouble. They approached Soul with Wes in mind, under the delusion that sleeping with the mediocre brother would somehow get them a chance with the successful one. Even as a teen, Soul had never been one for casual sex, especially with pop groupies, and he certainly didn't need a lingering reminder of his inferiority in the form of a nameless woman with too much lipstick and perfume. He was an expert at doing the self loathing thing all on his own, thank you very much.

"Hey, Soul?"

Soul scowled, hoping that the three string cheeses he unattractively shoved into his mouth would deter this girl from trying to talk to him. She was cute, he would admit that much, but he just wasn't here to help launch her career by getting into some on camera hookup. He had enough of his own, organic drama; there was no need to add fake, TV drama to his ever growing list of worries.

Apparently, Blondie couldn't take the hint. "So - "

"Okay, look," Soul said thickly, once he choked down all the food in his mouth, "I'm going to make this really easy for you. No, I'm not going to introduce you to Wes Evans. No, I never hooked up with Liz Thompson. Finally, no comment on Harvar's sexuality and it's seriously fucked how fixated people are on it."

She scowled at him and Soul steeled himself for the inevitable and mostly deserved verbal and/or physical assault. "I was just going to let you know that the camera's rolling and," she nodded towards him, "your fly's undone."

Soul fumbled the fourth string cheese and it fell on the floor as he scrambled for his zipper. He felt like an idiot, had acted like an asshole, and, of course, it had been caught by the entire camera crew. They looked at each other gleefully, giving Soul the thumbs up. The girl, the one who had only been trying to help, apparently, took her sandwich and stalked towards the confession room.

She purposely left the door ajar. "The egos on these D-list, washed up, overcompensating pop star jerks is just unreal."

Soul could almost hear Wes laughing all the way from New York.

The first thing Soul did the next morning was leave Wes a very scathing, vaguely threatening voicemail for bullying him into this shit show.

The second thing Soul did was learn the blond girl's name - Just Maka, she scowled when the host of the show accidentally called her Maka Albarn - and then promptly sabotaged her chicken dish during their first cooking challenge.

The Hunger Games encouraged drama and cheating and sabotage, after all, and since Soul wasn't going to make it past the first episode, he figured he might as well go out with a bang. It was a comfort to know that many of the other contestants were also lackluster cooks - truth be told, Maka's chicken was undercooked and over seasoned, even without him secretly adding a whole jar of wasabi to her sauce - and it was almost fun to participate, even if it was only for a short time. He didn't have to think about Kim's song or his own failures. He could just be himself.

"I'll kill you," Maka growled under her breath when time was called and the panel of judges got ready to taste their dishes. One of them bit into her chicken and immediately started dry heaving. "I know you did something to my dish. Admit it."

Soul smirked and leaned on the countertop, leering up at her. "You know what they say: if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen."

Her eyes narrowed. Even though Soul had recently learned that she was an author, not an athlete as he first guessed, there was no question that she could probably murder him with her bare hands. There was something charming about her glare, maybe even a little attractive, but Soul quickly squashed that thought down and put it away in the mental file To Be Unpacked Never. He couldn't stop grinning and Maka couldn't stop hissing at him like a cat who had gotten sprayed with a hose; Soul was almost sorry that after tonight he would be gone and would never get to tease her again.

"What's up with you not using your last name?" Soul asked conversationally as the judges moved on to a beef dish that was so raw it was practically mooing. "That only works for Madonna or Cher."

Maka's mouth thinned into a tight line. "Stop talking to me. You're the enemy."

He chuckled. "I really hate to break this to you, but you're not going to win this competition."

Her hand slammed down on the table, shaking all of the condiments. "How dare you? You don't know that!"

"I'm not sure the judges appreciated Salmonella à la Maka. Pretty sure that's an automatic disqualification, actually," Soul said lazily. "Who cares? No one here's to win, anyway. They all just want their fifteen minutes. Aren't you pushing that novel of yours?"

"Tales From Death City is a book of poetry, you uncultured - uncultured - " Soul raised an eyebrow, "- uncultured sack of potatoes!"

Soul burst out laughing. "Did you just call me a sack of potatoes? Man, I've been called a lot of things but never a sack of potatoes."

Maka struggled to keep a straight face, head held high, cheeks flushed with indignation, but he could see that her lips kept threatening to quirk upwards. God, it was fun to bother her. Of all of the plastic wannabes, Maka seemed the most genuine. She didn't lose her panties over celebrities. She wasn't trying to use him to get closer to his brother. He didn't find her popping out of his trash or sneaking around corners to take weird cellphone pictures to sell on the internet - yet. Soul was withholding judgment. The cynic in him wasn't ready to accept that there was someone in this world who wasn't actively trying to fuck him over for their personal gain.

But Maka had an artless, approachable, country girl sort of vibe to her, despite all appearances. She also seemed competitive, loud, bossy, and reckless, quick to chop off his hand even if he did offer it to help. He wondered what kind of poetry a girl like that would write. Probably tacky, cheesy, romantic prose, he thought with a snicker. Then again, Soul wasn't much of a writer either, if his last album flop was any indication.

Neither Soul nor Maka were voted off of the show that night. Despite their abysmal cooking skills, they were apparently a big hit with the audience - one of the camera men whispered that people were hungry for more interaction between the two since the zipper incident - and they had been saved from elimination by bored housewives who had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

They parted to their respective rooms, Maka promising revenge for her fallen chicken. Soul quipped that he would be looking forward to it. The cameramen gave another thumbs up and they both slammed their bedroom doors shut with a blush.

Soul's curiosity was piqued about the strange girl who was obsessed with winning a fake reality TV show, so he did what any other normal person would do: he looked Maka up on the internet.

He sat down at his laptop and typed Maka Albarn into the search engine. There were a couple of academic articles from her college years at Columbia (a nerd through and through, just as he suspected), a link to a profile on (super nerdy, Soul amended, and a quick scroll reassured him that she never wrote Real Person Fanfic about his band, which he was eternally grateful for because he never, ever wanted to delve into the minds of those who coined the term "scarfshipping" in regards to him and his bandmate, Harvar) and finally, oddly enough, he wound up at a website dedicated to the book A Lone Spirit's Journey, one of those trashy romance novels that lonely women devoured and Soul generally turned his elitist nose up at.

"To my dearest baby angel, Maka," Soul read outloud, blinking rapidly at the dedication on the first page of the e-book, "who is Papa's everything."

Well, that solved that mystery. Soul wouldn't want to be associated with Spirit Albarn, either. The guy had a picture of himself on the jacket of his book with an open shirt and windblown hair like he was a ginger Fabio. The book was an autobiographical account of Spirit's "love of women", his "journey to recognize that beauty comes in all forms and all women were meant to be desired" but Soul thought that it was just a pathetic attempt to romanticize Spirit's inability to keep it in his pants. The secondhand embarrassment was too much for Soul's delicate heart and he closed the tab quickly.

He typed in Tales From Death City next and clicked the buy button. Maybe that would put him back into her good graces. Then again, probably not, Soul thought with a snort. She definitely looked like the type to hold a grudge, even over something as stupid as ruined chicken.

The poetry was a bit darker than he would have guessed and a little too purple for his taste, but her style was interesting. The world she built was Tim Burton-esque; creepy but not unwelcoming, strange but not unapproachable. Some of the poems were romantic and bordered on erotic (what exactly did she mean by "going soul deep"? Sounded like a pretty, roundabout way to talk about good, old fashioned banging, but he digressed) and they seemed like the kind of thing college girls trying to be deep and mysterious would eat up.

Still. Something about her writing resonated within him, and Soul found himself becoming more and more intrigued by the enigma that was Maka Albarn.

His cell phone buzzed and Soul groped for it, nearly falling off his desk chair in a lazy attempt not to have to get up. A message from Wes. Against his better judgment, Soul opened the text.

Hey, did you know that Twitter is obsessed with you and Maka Albarn? They're calling it #zippershipping. We can work with this. Call me.

Attached was a screenshot that Wes had taken from Twitter with unforgettable gems such as "when r they going to just fuck already, jfc! #zippershipping" and "things are heaten up in the kitchen and it ain't the stoves, dayum that chemistry! #zippershipping #eyesex #hothothot".

"Zippershipping, Jesus fucking Christ," Soul wheezed, nearly careening backwards right onto the floor. "Where the hell do people come up with this stuff?"

His unfinished sheet music for Kim's song, The Language of Letting Go, fluttered to the floor in the wake of his laughing and flailing. Mediocre, cliché lyrics about love and heartbreak were written, rewritten, crossed out and erased. Words were not Soul's forte; he had always been more of a melody guy, preferring to let the music speak for itself.

Soul looked back at Tales From Death City, with its poor sales and bittersweet charm. "Something college girls would eat up, huh?"

He could definitely work with this.

The dessert round of the competition was probably the hardest for Soul, since it was extremely difficult to fake being able to bake a cake that didn't taste like literal garbage. There were only four other competitors left and they all looked as bewildered as he felt. Soul couldn't imagine that any of them could come up with something edible, but then again, he never imagined that he could make it all the way to the semifinals.

Clearly, anything was possible.

Soul settled on a chocolate cake because that seemed safe. Everyone liked chocolate cake. He had no idea how many eggs, how many cups of flour or sugar, or how much chocolate he would need for this recipe so, like everything else he had been doing in this competition, he decided to wing it.

The batter looked right but Soul wasn't brave enough to taste it, even with his stomach of steel. He said a silent little prayer for the safety of the judges, who were all chugging Pepto Bismol as a safety precaution, and stuck it in the oven, which had thankfully been preheated by the show's staff. Now all he had to do was wait. Sticking his earbuds into his ears, Soul turned on some music and put his head in his arms so that the other competitors wouldn't try to make idle conversation with him.

Things were fine, if not a little boring, he thought, until he smelled smoke.

Smoke coming from his oven.

"Oh, shit," Soul swore as he watched a team of EMTs rush in to extinguish the fire. It was small, thank God, and the smoke was contained quickly by the emergency personnel (who were on hand at all times and rightly so), which Soul was grateful for. He had enough problems without adding Murder By Cake to the list.

He wasn't even particularly attached to the cake or upset by its destruction but how in the hell had it caught on fire so quickly? It had only been a few minutes since he put the damn thing in the oven!

Maka Albarn looked up from where she was messily decorating her cupcakes and gave him a big smile.

"'If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen', right?"

Soul was dumbfounded, but incredibly impressed at Maka's pure nerve to almost set an entire kitchen on fire in her quest for vengeance.

Touché.

"I hate that guy," Maka said during the final challenge, nodding towards a gentleman with very oddly pointed hair and Coke bottle glasses. Soul recognized him as Ox Ford, some nouveau riche tech geek who invented a dating app for other geeks who couldn't get laid. "He's such a jerk. We went to college together and he thinks he's so much better than everyone. He needs to be taken down."

Soul looked around and realized that Maka was, in fact, talking to him. This made him an accomplice in whatever scheme she was planning. He hoped it was safer than felony arson. "Yeah?"

She leaned back on the counter. "Let's trap him in a bathroom so he misses the challenge. Just lock him in."

Okay, so she had moved on from arson to kidnapping. "Maybe you should scale it down a little. It'll cut back on the lawsuits from all the emotional scarring. Sometimes the classics are the best."

Maka narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm listening."

He leaned in closer to her, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Switch the sugar and the salt."

"That's your great plan?" Maka asked, indignant at the simplicity of it all. "That's terrible!"

"No, it's not. First of all, no one will go to jail. Second of all, just think how crazy it would drive a perfectionist like him trying to figure out where he went wrong," Soul said. "He'll be thinking about it for days, weeks after the competition is over. Lying awake at night wondering what he could have done differently. Maybe even crying because you got farther in the competition."

"That," Maka breathed, "is pure evil and I love it. But just know that after this? It's every man for himself. Don't think I'll cut you any slack in the finals."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

After a night of gorging themselves on the complimentary pastries given to them by actual chefs and caterers to celebrate successfully fucking with Ox and making it into the finals, Maka and Soul were ushered into confession room in a shameless last ditch effort to boost the show's ratings. One of the producers had tried to broach the topic of #zippershipping but Soul and Maka smoothly steered the conversation away from any potential romance towards something so much more entertaining: mean tweets.

Especially mean tweets about Soul.

He took it all in stride, laughing, rather than crying, at all of the terrible things people on the internet had to say about him. Soul was used to it. Fans and haters were vicious and, loathe as he was to admit it, really fucking funny in their quest to shred the egos of famous people. And honestly, he had hated himself much longer than these nerds, so nothing they said could even come close to things he thought on a daily basis.

"This tweet from idntwearcomdoms reads: If I recorded myself simultaneously throwing up & having explosive diarrhea it would still sell more copies than SoulEvans' last train wreck," Soul read out loud.

Maka gasped and Soul appreciated how offended she was on his behalf. "Oh my God, that's horrible!"

" imonmyperiod writes: SoulEvans looks like an extra in Sharknado. #gotothedentistyousonofabitch."

She tried to hold in the laughter by burying her face in her arms but they did little to hide her giggle-snorts. Soul continued on. " nipnopz6969: Someone please create a kickstarter to fund SoulEvans never making another album again."

Maka whistled. "Nipnopz6969 is brutal."

"I can't believe you just said Nipnopz6969."

"You said it first!"

"It sounds extra ridiculous when you say it, though," Soul said. "You know it does."

Maka nudged his shoulder. "Are there any about me?"

He typed her name into Twitter, wondering if she knew what she was getting herself into. Soul was used to bad publicity and fans who had hate shrines dedicated to him (ah, the days of Myspace, he thought nostalgically, with its glitter text and shitty gifs). Maka was tough but was internet tough? "Okay, here's one from acagedbirb: If I had a choice between reading Maka's new book or sticking my dick in the trash compactor, I would choose the trash compactor."

"..." Maka narrowed her eyes and pointed to the camera. "I'm coming for you, a caged birb."

"You should be scared, man. Those guns look loaded." Soul tilted his head towards her arms.

"Also, what's with the obsession with your teeth? I think they have character," Maka said, the picture of innocence as she leaned in way too closely to his face. "They're kind of cute."

Soul could almost hear the #zippershipping fandom collectively lose their shit. The producers were practically pissing themselves with glee and the editors were salivating over the commercial possibilities. Maka was either a PR genius or completely oblivious. Soul was starting to think it was the latter and he liked that about her.

He leaned away from her and grinned, making sure all his teeth were on view for her pleasure. "Thanks."

They read a few more mean tweets ranging from criticisms of Soul's too tight skinny jeans to Maka's boyish figure and even a hidden gem about Wes' "creeper" face before the crew called it a night. Maka and Soul polished off the rest of the pastries in the shared living room, one of them whispering nipnops every so often,effectively making the other snort. This was the perfect time to broach the topic of teaming up, Soul thought. They got along decently, Maka didn't seem like a soul sucking scumbag, and he could be over and done with this song with the added bonus of never having to associate with Kim Diehl ever again.

"So, I'm writing this song." Subtlety had never been Soul's strong point.

Maka nodded. "Right. The Language of Letting Go. I remember you mentioning it a couple of name."

"I didn't pick it," he sighed. "I'm at the whim of a very temperamental pop diva."

She winced, looking genuinely sorry for him. "That's rough."

Soul bit into his third cupcake. "I've got the melody down but I'm having some trouble with the lyrics." Maka blinked at him. "I read your stuff. It's good."

"Tha - "

"Let's partner up."

Her brows furrowed, lips puckering slightly in confusion. "Ha? You want me to help you write a song? I'm no musician. Seriously, they kicked me out of the chorus in the third grade. Who gets kicked out of public school chorus? Me. I did."

He choked back a laugh imagining a tiny Maka getting escorted off stage, kicking and screaming, during a public school holiday recital. "It's fine, I have that covered. It's your words I need."

Maka abruptly stood up and brushed herself off. "I'm flattered, but I'm really trying to concentrate on my book sales right now." As she should, Soul thought a little meanly, because they were seriously lacking. "So, I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

"Will you at least think about it?" Soul asked. "You don't have to answer right now. We did make a pretty good team during the competition, didn't we?"

"Sorry," Maka said again, turning her back to him. Her body language was sharp and tense like an angry little animal bristling. "My answer won't change. Good night."

She stalked off and slammed her bedroom door behind her leaving Soul alone with a box full of unfinished pastries, a lot of unanswered questions, and most of all, the impending dread of having to face Wes about his failure to recruit Maka Albarn.

"I do not have a creeper face."

Soul grinned into the phone. "You know the internet is nothing but brutally honest, Wes. Anyway, the whole thing with Maka was a no go."

"That's not going to work. You've got to get her on board no matter what. People love you two. There's drama and sabotage - the chemistry is explosive! Just think how much attention Kim's song would get if you two were working together!"

He flopped back onto his bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the blankets and forget Kim's song and this stupid show and goddamn #zippershipping. "I asked. She refused. There's nothing else I can do."

"You need to turn up the charm factor. Seduce her a little. Use that Evans sex appeal that's hidden deep, deep, deep down beneath all of that cynicism and general hatred of the human populace."

Soul barked out a laugh at the thought of him effectively seducing anyone, but Wes continued on. "What's it going to take to get her to say yes?"

"No idea." Soul shrugged even though Wes couldn't see it. "She said she wants to concentrate on her book sales. Gotta respect that about her. She's stubborn as hell."

"It just so happens that I have a genius idea that will benefit all parties involved."

"Forgive me for not trusting your 'genius ideas' but need I remind you about the Shiny Pleather Pants incident of 1999?" Soul asked.

"Hey, those were in style! For once in your life just be quiet and let your big brother handle this, okay? I've got this."

Soul sighed again, a deep, soul suffering sigh. "No puffy jackets and denim jumpsuits this time, I hope?"

"I make no promises," Wes said gleefully. "I like to keep my options open."

Wes' "genius" plan came to fruition the last night of the competition.

Both Soul and Maka had been beat out in the season finale by a teenager named Angela, who played a quirky high school aged witch on the Disney channel. It was only fair, Soul thought, because she was the only one in the whole competition who had managed not to send any of the judges to the emergency room. Maka was genuinely disappointed and upset with her loss; Soul was glad to finally be getting back to his cave and so he could hermit in peace.

He was packing his luggage when his door burst open, a panting, red faced Maka standing in his doorway. She was wide eyed and words, for once, were escaping her.

"What's up?" Soul asked.

"What's up?! Don't play dumb!" Maka strode into his room uninvited. "I just got a call from my publisher that every physical copy of my book has been sold!"

Soul threw a pair of jeans into his bag. "That's cool. Congrats."

"Don't 'that's cool' me, Soul Evans!" Maka grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him towards her. For a hot second, Soul thought that she was going to either kiss him or head butt him and honestly, he wasn't sure which one he deserved more. "I know you bought all the books and then donated them to school libraries. You didn't even do it anonymously! What's your game? What's your angle?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets, the picture of calm and cool, despite his rapidly thumping heart. "You said you were concerned about your book sales. Now you don't have to be. Plus a lot of underprivileged kids will have access to your writing. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

She stared at him intensely and his heart did an odd flop right into his stomach. Her eyes were bright and fierce, full of fire and passion and maybe murder. "I don't know whether to thank you or punch you right in the face."

"I'd prefer the former."

Maka squinted. "Are you trying to blackmail me into helping you write this song?"

Soul sputtered. "No! What the hell, no. Blackmail you how? 'Maka, write this song for me or I'm going to take books back from orphans'? That's a pretty dick move."

"You put a jar of wasabi into my sauce. I don't know if you can be trusted!" Maka exclaimed.

"You need to let that go."

"Never."

He untangled her hands from his shirt. "Look. I can see that you're a really driven person. Stubborn, reckless, headstrong - "

"Hey!"

"- and I know that you're trying to make a name for yourself outside of your old man." Maka made a little, angry bird noise that was almost endearing. "You never use your last name. You came on this joke of a show and you actually tried to win. Tell me I'm wrong."

She tossed her hair back, expression hard. "So, what? I don't need him to get my stuff out there."

"So," Soul continued, encouraged that Maka hadn't shanked him with her hairclip yet, "like it or not, Spirit Albarn is dominating the writing game right now. People are going to compare the two of you. Trust me, I know all about getting into the same business as a relative."

Her face softened a bit and it reeked of sympathy. It was no secret that Wes was the better of the two brothers: more talented, more driven, more charismatic. Soul had made peace with it. "I'm not trying to strongarm you into this, but if you write the song, you'd be getting your name out there in a way your dad never has. The world will see your writing for what it is."

No doubt Maka was thinking about all of the Amazon book reviews that quoted her father's book or expressed disappointment that Maka's poems were not nearly as enthralling as Spirit's romps with meter maids to get out of parking tickets. "Do you really like my writing?" she asked at last.

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," Soul said. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing Soul would read on a daily basis, but he had been interested enough to finish the book, which was more than he could say for 99% of the other stories out there.

"Which poem did you like the best?"

A test. Soul had never been good at those, but this time he had come prepared. "Requiem for the Reaper."

She looked surprised. "You actually read it."

"Well, yeah. How could I justify buying five thousand copies of a book I've never read?"

Maka crossed her arms over her chest, rocking back and forth on her feet a bit. "... I would get full creative control over the lyrics?"

Soul nodded. "A hundred percent. It just has to go with the song title. And look, all I'm asking is for you to try. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out."

They stared at each other for a few more moments before Maka let her arms fall to her sides, posture less defensive and more relaxed. "Okay. You've got a deal. I'll help write this song."

"Gre - "

"But," Maka said, poking him hard in the chest, "there's no try, got it? If I'm going to attach my name to something, it's going to be the best damn song in the world, okay? I'm talking Grammy material here."

Jesus, what he wouldn't give for a fraction of this woman's nerves or drive. "I got it," Soul chuckled. "Then it's a deal. Partners?"

Maka stuck out her hand and he took it. "Partners."

Maybe, Soul thought with some amusement, he did have a little bit of that Evans charm after all.