#wesley evans

[justpocketchange]

Place your bets: What is Wes Evans' true color palette?

White hair, red eyes

White hair, brown eyes

White hair, blue eyes

Platinum blond hair, red eyes

Platinum blond hair, brown eyes

Platinum blond hair, blue eyes

Voting ended onMay 14, 2025

[tvaddict-owl]

The Rookie 3x01

Welcome back everyone to the Rookie!! It has been a few months and we fans have been patiently waiting and the time is finally here! Now without further ado let’s get into the episode.

To be fair this is not the strongest season premire I’ve seen. I’m not saying it’s bad, it just didn’t fully feel like a season premerie. The only rushes I got was when Lucy and Tim went to see Rosalind, and the final confrontation between Serge, Nolan, and Armstrong.

Nolan was right to call Grey and Wesley. It really helped him out a lot, it bought him time, and it ultimately helped him in the end. He was smart with the evidence and semi smart with how the whole plan played out. In true Nolan fashion he was put into danger, nearly dies (again), and as always survives. Both Nyla and John have to deal with the major consequences of their actions. This will greatly effect Nolan and how he moves through the department, so it will be interesting to see how that plays out.

Now I knew Armstrong was only going to be dealt with in one of two ways. One was being arrested or two was the outcome of tonight, him being killed. I’m still salty that Armstrong was the mole because I really like him as a character in season 2, and I would have loved to have him stick around as a prisoner advisor thing or whatever, but we got what we got. P.S I really hope Grace comes back, I really loved her too.

Now onto Angela and Jackson. I am so so so happy that Angela made it as detective. She deserves it and has worked so hard for this position. Her becoming pregnant has put her in a rough spot though. Although she is happy for her and Wesley, she is ultimately worried about her future in her new position of detective. I can just hope that everything will go well, and she and Wesley are happy. Also cannot wait for the flippin wedding! Jackson didn’t play too much of a big role this episode other than being security for Armstrong, so not much to say, except for being happy to see him again. Also his dad wanting him to be in IA will be interesting.

Now finally onto our favorite partners, Tim and Lucy. It was so great watching them together on screen again. As always their dynamics are spot on, both of them compliment each other so well. Both of them going to see Rosalind was an adrenaline rush. How Rosalind was able to see Lucy in the barrel is beyond me. Rosalind taunting Lucy by singing her song back to her was chilling and further proving to Lucy that she watched her. But Tim wanting to shield Lucy from Rosalind shows how much he cares, but he still blames himself for what happened to her, and that is something that he will hold onto for a long time.

Well that’s it for this episode. It was great seeing everyone on screen again, I hope it can only get better from here. I can’t wait to see where we go from here, we are in for a great season. See you all next week! Stay safe!

[snorlaxlovesme]

hey did you know Wes Evans is also a scythe but has kept it hidden his whole life because he sees how people treat weapons in every day society and didn’t want that stigma to ruin his career as a classical musician?

he wanted to tell Soul SO badly, so his younger brother wouldn’t feel so alone and scared when he discovered he was a weapon, but when Wes saw his parents consider sending Soul away to the academy, Wes kept quiet. it would be Soul’s ticket out of the Evans way of life, and that could be a way for him to finally thrive. (Wes is no fool, he could clearly see how his parents favored him over Soul, and the idea of having two musicians AND two scythes in the same household would cause absolute catastrophe. Soul needed a win, and when he outed himself immediately as a demon weapon, Wes wanted badly to see Soul shine.)

and god, during the kishin revival and the months following, Wes was SO SCARED for Soul. he wondered if letting Soul get sent away was the right choice or if he should have told his brother it was too dangerous to enroll in the DWMA. Wes could have helped Soul hide his weapon form, he could have helped him with his confidence issues, he could have defended him against his parents scrutiny and high expectations. but instead he sent him off to fight the god of madness. to probably die.

so imagine Wes’s relief, no his PRIDE, to see Soul in the news, saving people’s lives and being such a hero!! watching Soul stand tall on a stage as he receives awards from different local police forces for helping to save their towns from monsters. Wes could not be more happy for his little brother.for showing unflinching bravery in the face of danger, and for embracing his weapon form in a way that Wes was always afraid to do. being born a weapon is a curse for a lot of people, Wes included, but for Soul is was a blessing

[styxjuice]

I just spelled “Wes” as “Mess.”

Wes is a mess.

[leninsbody]

Escaped inmate found in dishwasher

Escaped inmate found in dishwasher

[ad_1]

Scott Eslinger, KBMT-TV , KHOU 4:45 PM. EST April 14, 2016

Escaped Jasper County inmate Wesley Evans was caught in a dishwasher. (Photo: Jasper County Jail)

JASPER, Texas — An escaped Jasper County Jail inmate didn’t make a clean getaway after he was caught hiding in a dishwasher Wednesday morning.

We…

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[socialstudiesmidway-blog]

Escaped inmate found in dishwasher

Escaped inmate found in dishwasher

[ad_1] Scott Eslinger, KBMT-TV , KHOU 4:45 PM. EST April 14, 2016 Escaped Jasper County inmate Wesley Evans was caught in a dishwasher. (Photo: Jasper County Jail) JASPER, Texas — An escaped Jasper County Jail inmate didn’t make a clean getaway after he was caught hiding in a dishwasher Wednesday morning. Wesley Evans, 20, escaped while at Jasper Memorial Hospital for…

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[styxjuice]

Brothers Severed

A thing I thought up a while ago. A varied AU, it’s based off of Mothy’s “Story of Evil” song trilogy, the French Revolution, and it’s also a reincarnation AU.

The facts had been ingrained into Wesley's brain: Weapons were the lower class. Weapons were tools. Weapons were servants.

So why, he wondered as he gazed into the crib of his baby brother, did the Soul-Perceiving nurse declare that Soul was a weapon? It made no sense to Wesley. His brother was a prince, just like him. They grew up in the same palaces, attended to by staff and dressed in the finest coats of shimmering gold-colored fabric. Only when Soul turned ten did his elder brother realize that their paths in life, though united by blood, were vastly different.

The cathedral near the Summer Palace echoed with the princes' laughter. No one visited the church during the week, and every summer it had been their favorite place to play and pretend one of them was king. The role would switch from time to time, but Wesley would often forfeit the position to his younger brother, for he knew that Soul was never likely to actually become king, and he enjoyed how happy it made him. Even at fifteen, the budding king willingly participated in his brother's games.

"And so, I knight thee, Wes of the empty church!" Soul proclaimed cheerfully and waved his wooden sword. He grinned, showing his mishmash of different teeth. His baby teeth had begun to fall out, but pointed fangs had moved in to replace them. Wesley's own canines were rather sharp, but even Soul's front teeth had formed irregularly.

"Now it's your turn," beamed the younger, kneeling in front of Wesley, who smiled. It was how their game worked: He would be both king and villain next and give Soul some sort of imaginary quest. After sword fighting together, Wesley would once again play the part of the king and knight Soul. However, the younger surprised the elder by altering his lines.

"I'll always serve you, my liege. Even if you became evil, I'll be evil too and stand by your side," he murmured. Wesley stared at him, his eyes widening slightly.

The slamming of the church doors behind the brothers provided a welcome release from the suddenly awkward moment. Wesley straightened up and turned his attention towards the entryway, while the priest strode towards them with purpose-filled gait, followed by a pair of nuns and a female soldier clad in red.

"Prince Wesley," he spoke, bowing once. His wrinkled and tired face betrayed no emotion. "You parents have requested your presence in the gazebo."

Wesley nodded and turned to Soul, reaching out to take his brother by the arm, but the priest's knotted hand settled on his shoulder.

"I'm afraid not, my boy," he said. "Soul is to remain here with Madelon."

The crimson-clad knight gave a curt nod as the priest spoke. Wesley stiffened, casting a concerned glance back at his brother.

The priest sighed. "Your parents will explain to you what is to happen. I suggest you deliver yourself to them posthaste."

Further questions begged for answers from within Wesley's mind, but he kept them sealed there, giving a grim nod and striding out the door past the priest and soldier. The two nuns turned and followed him. Even though he heard Soul call his name, asking what was to happen, the elder did not turn to look behind him.

Only after talking with his parents did Wesley understand. It was bound to happen, they said. Soul was a weapon. Servitude was his fate. Therefore, he would become Wesley's personal attendant and tool. Madelon would train him to manifest his weapon, while Wesley would learn to use a scythe. No longer was he to treat Soul as a brother, an equal. Destiny had promised him a life of bondage when it endowed him with a weapon's soul, they said. Who were they, the King and Queen, to challenge societal norms? It had been wrong for them to treat the brothers as equals, to put a prince on the same level as his weapon brother. They were sorry for such conduct, and hoped that they had not offended Wesley in any way.

The only thing that offended him, Wesley wanted to scream, was suggesting that his brother had as much purpose as a forged hunk of metal, rather than a real person with a soul. However, the longer the separation between the brothers lasted, the further their parents spoiled their eldest child, the more they insisted that he was superior above all others, a terrifying thing began to happen.

Wesley started to believe them.

The brothers were united over six months later. Prior to that, Wesley had only caught glimpses of Soul when they were loaded into separate carriages on their journey to the other palace in Paris. So when Madelon requested Wesley's presence in the hall, a small glimmer of hope lit in the prince.

His brother had returned to him.

As soon as Soul was presented to him, Wesley knew that six months had changed them both. Soul stood up straighter, stiller, and much more stone-faced than any ten-year-old boy should be. Immediately, the younger dropped to one knee, bowing his head and placing his right hand on his heart.

"Your humble servant, my prince," he murmured. Wesley's eyes widened. Whether from horror, shock, or fascination, he couldn't tell.

Within the course of a year, Soul's words changed from "my prince" to "my king." The brothers' parents passed away suddenly, and some suspected that they had been poisoned. Nevertheless, after the period of mourning had ended, Wesley ascended the throne of France at the age of sixteen.

The longer Wesley sat on the throne, the more the position began to get to him. He had servants, palaces, and fine clothing. His every demand was carried out with respect and efficiency, for he was of royal blood. Obviously, he began to think, he was superior to all others. Soul, having been trained to agree, did naught but encourage him.

"Soul," spoke Wesley one day, at the age of eighteen, as his brother kneeled and buckled his king's boots, "Am I a good king?"

Soul paused. He resumed his work shortly, speaking in the low voice he had recently acquired, "Do you want me to be honest, my king?"

Wesley shuffled his foot a little. "Yes. And I've told you that you may just refer to me as 'Wes.' You're still my brother, even if you're beneath me."

Soul chuckled slightly. "Literally," he replied. Wesley huffed a small laugh before his brother continued, and the mirth dropped from his countenance. "The people would not say you are a good king. On my walks through your villages, I've heard many peasants complaining that you oppress them."

Wesley scoffed. "The opinion of the peasantry matters not to me," he muttered. Soul shrugged, standing from his brother's boots and moving to fasten his vest.

"I believe, Wes," he said, focusing on the buttons, "That it is the job of a king to rule over his people. In that case, yes, you are a good king." He turned his gaze upward, his red eyes locking into his brother's mahogany-colored irises. "But I'm afraid that being a good king is quite different from being a good person."

The king merely nodded, ending the conversation.

After both attending and hosting quite a few grand balls over the course of the next five years, Wesley abruptly found his attention snagged by an enchanting duchess. Her hair fell down her shoulders in a cascade like flaxen gold, and her eyes glistened with every color of the blue ocean. She stood tall, only about eight centimeters shorter than himself. Wesley found his every thought governed by her, that fleeting woman in her deep blue dress.

"You're interested in the Duchess Elizabeth?" a nobleman asked him as the king's gaze followed the duchess across the room. At Wesley's nod, the other man sighed. "I'm afraid she only has eyes for a statesman under the name of Searle. I'd suggest that you give up before she breaks your heart."

Wesley shrugged him off. "I'm sure she'd rather have a king than a statesman," he said, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth's form. "Besides, if I command her to leave Searle, she'll do so. She can't very well disobey her king's word."

Despite his confidence, he soon discovered that the Duchess Elizabeth possessed a rather strong will, and their first and last conversation ended in disaster.

Having finally cornered her in a secluded portion of the hall, Wesley smiled at the beautiful duchess.

"My lady," he said pleasantly, "Would you give me the honor of dancing with you?"

To his surprise, the duchess scowled. "With all due respect, your highness," she snapped, implying that she actually meant to respect at all, "Absolutely not."

Wesley stood flabbergasted for a second, before his brow furrowed and he his creased downward in a frown. "And why not?" he asked. It was an odd situation to him; he always got his requests fulfilled immediately. The blonde duchess' defiance was foreign, and he didn't like it.

Elizabeth turned up her nose. "Because I've seen the looks you've given me, King Wesley, and I am not interested. I never will be interested. My heart is held by another man, and neither of us particularly like you," she spat. Wesley's eyes widened, unused to such insolence, when she added curtly, "Never talk to me again, King Wesley IV. You're not particularly handsome either."

With that, the duchess strode haughtily away, leaving Wesley to gape at her retreating form.

It took the king but a moment to overcome his initial shock before anger began to bubble up from the pit of his stomach, contorting his features into a fierce scowl.

"Your love lies with the statesmen Searle, eh?" he growled, glaring at her back. "I believe the country can do without the statesman Searle."

Soul held open the carriage door for Wesley when he returned to Paris. The younger brother possessed a cheery air about him as he helped Wesley settle in his bedchamber, smiling uncharacteristically. He seemed a bit distracted, for he didn't remember to pull the curtains closed until Wesley reminded him, and the king had never slept with the curtains open.

"Soul," Wesley spoke sulkily, sitting down at his bureau while he observed his brother, "You're either drunk or in love."

Soul's face turned red suddenly. "W-what gave you that idea?" he stammered. Wesley almost rolled his eyes.

"I know you, Soul. And I know what being in love looks like," he replied. He had seen that same grin and aloof expression in the mirror a few days ago.

The younger brother cleared his throat. "Well… I can't lie to my king, can I?" he sighed.

Wes huffed. "Nor your brother," he said, balling up a piece of paper and rolling it around the desk.

Soul caught his brother's eye for a moment, but then swiftly turned his gaze down to his boots. "I've seen her a lot around town, and we've talked some," he murmured. "But she's beautiful, Wes."

Wesley nodded idly, and his fingers passed the crumpled wad of paper into his other hand. Whoever Soul had met, whatever she looked like, no girl nor woman could ever compare to Duchess Elizabeth. His thoughts remained focused on his lost love as the younger talked on for a while, and Wesley vaguely heard him mention blonde hair the color of ocean sand, along with eyes like peridot gemstones.

"Soul," Wesley spoke up, interrupting him, "We're going to destroy the statesman Searle and his family tonight."

Soul stopped abruptly, his face turning as white as a sheet. "What?" he stammered.

Wesley breathed a sigh. "They must pay for stealing the heart of my dear Elizabeth," he said dispassionately. With a flick of his finger, he sent the balled-up paper flying from his desk and into the floor. "Searle and his entire family shall be executed, along with his staff. His estate shall burn and light up the night sky of Paris."

Soul appeared horrified. "But… Maka is a maid of Searle's manor…" he began to protest, but Wesley fixed him in a minor glare.

"Your king has given you an order, Soul," he snapped. Soul stared at him, shock and foreign hesitation evident in his red irises. Slowly, however, his expression shifted into stoic indifference. Wesley could almost see his brother's free will crumble as Soul bowed, placing one hand over his heart.

"Even if you became evil, I'll be evil too and stand by your side," he spoke softly, as if reminding himself, before he took a deep breath and said louder, "As you wish, my king."

As the king ordered, the Searle mansion and all who lived in it fell prey to flames and Soul's blade upon that April night. The evening air, formerly unusually chilly, soon heated and wavered with the flames pouring from the estate. Wesley led the charge himself like a madman, swinging his brother's blade back and forth in a heartbroken rage. All who stood in his way - allies, servants, and nobility alike – fell victim to the terrible wrath of the king.

Only after all life had been purged from the mansion did Wesley realize that Soul's shaft, which he had wielded for nearly ten years, had burnt his hands. His brother hadn't made a sound the entire time, but Wesley could feel his soul tense and weaken when they had slain a blonde maid about his age. It hadn't occurred to Wesley at the time that he might have killed the woman his brother loved.

The king had never quite understood that there would be consequences for his actions. He was king; whatever he wanted was law, and he had no authority to reprimand him. If something happened to go wrong, someone else could always take the blame and punishment.

So when Soul burst into his room, his eyes wide with panic, Wesley found himself thoroughly confused.

"How could you be so stupid?!" screamed the younger, throwing open the doors frantically. Wesley peered at him from his bureau, frowning.

"Is that any way to talk to your king?" he shot back, but Soul seemed to ignore him as he turned on his heel and slammed the doors shut. He held them there while his chest heaved.

"Wes," he spoke slowly, his voice strained. "Burning down the Searle estate was the last straw. The people are furious at your lack of humanity."

Wesley raised an eyebrow and stood. "My lack of humanity?" he parroted, appalled. Those below him, particularly the peasantry, had no business speaking of their monarch like that. Soul groaned slightly as he shoved furniture against the doors.

"Don't you get it, Wes?" he snapped. "You're not king anymore. No one respects your authority." His voice broke as he continued, "They're here, Wes. They're storming the palace, and they're coming for you."

Wesley's breath caught in his throat, and he suddenly froze. His hand traveled to his neck, feeling his skin and collar for a moment, as he nearly felt the phantom blade of the guillotine press against his throat. He gulped, shaking, his wide eyes losing focus, while he struggled to cope with feeling terror for the first time.

Soul's hands settled on his shoulders without warning, startling Wesley into staring at the crimson eyes of his brother.

"Don't panic. You're getting out of this," he said softly. "I've got a plan, all right? You just have to trust me."

At Wesley's meager nod, Soul stepped back. Immediately began to shrug off his clothes, pooling them on the floor. "You too," he said.

Wesley blinked incredulously. "While I trust your judgement, Soul," he muttered, stepping back, "I have no idea what you're doing and do not wish to partake in it."

Soul huffed. "We're switching clothes," he said, as if he had just spoken something as obvious as the color of the sky. "When the rebels storm in, they won't be able to tell the difference between us and they'll capture me. You, dressed as a servant, shall escape unscathed."

The king stiffened. "But… You'll be beheaded!" He spluttered. Soul paused, his shirt around his arms, but then he nodded slowly.

"I know," he murmured. He stepped over to his brother, beginning to unfasten his coat, as he did at the end of every day. He smiled sadly for a small moment, whispering, "I'll play the king today, okay?"

Wesley's throat went dry, but he said nothing. All he could do was hastily undress and pull on Soul's former clothes. They fit perfectly; the brothers had grown virtually identical.

"Now go," Soul said as soon as he was done, pushing him towards a small side door. "You know your way around the palace. Run as fast as you can and get out the back."

The underdressed king turned to look at his brother, horrified at their actions. "Soul, I-!" he began, but a large thud sounded against the main bedroom doors. Soul shot Wesley a meager grin, his eyes saddened yet resolute.

"Goodbye, my liege," he said, then closed the door soundly behind his brother. Horrified, Wesley hesitated but a moment before he tore down the narrow stairs, wiping tears from his eyes as he tried to block out the harsh yells of the invading peasantry.

The fallen king mingled with crowds of angered rebels before a tall, wooden platform. On it stood the guillotine, poised high above a white-topped head. As the charges were listed and the crowd grew ever restless, the king and his proxy's eyes met. The latter's lips pulled upward a little, displaying pointed teeth, and his shoulders moved with a slight sigh.

"Be done with it then!" he shouted out, his red eyes traveling towards his executioner, "It's nearly teatime."

Ocean waves washed over Wesley's bare feet. He breathed in a deep breath of the salt air and felt the glass of the bottle in his fingers. He remembered his last trip to the beach, when he and Soul were but children. There he had taught his brother the old myth that wishes, sent adrift in bottles, would come true.

Perhaps it was childish, but the usurped king found himself willing to try anything. His brother had departed from the world too young, and because of Wesley's own selfishness. He hated himself for it. Every night he dreamed of the guillotine's blade falling upon his own neck, and every morning he cursed the fact that it had been a dream.

But he knew that Soul would want him to live. His survival was the very end the young prince had died for.

Therefore, Wesley found himself writing wishes onto parchment. He revised his wish continuously, but they all began with the same phrase.

"If we are to be born again, allow me to capture the heart of Elizabeth."

"If we are to be born again, allow Soul to find his Maka in their next life."

"If we are to be born again, allow Soul to gain the highest honors and be hailed like the hero he is."

"If we are to be born again, dear fate, let us be brothers once more."

"This is babyish, Wes," grumbled Soul. Wes shrugged, stuffing the roll of paper into the Coke bottle. His brother's eight-year-old shoulders sagged. "You're thirteen. You're too old to make wishes."

Wes chuckled. "But wishes in bottles come true, Soul," he smiled at him as he pulled his cork from his pocket. Soul watched as he plugged the bottle. "Want to see how far I can throw it?"

At Soul's eager nod, Wes tossed the Coke glass into the ocean. Soul blinked his large red eyes.

"What did you wish for?"

Wes placed his hands in his pockets, grinning down at his brother. "Not telling," he teased. Soul crossed his arms, sticking his lip out in a pout.

"You gotta tell me!" he cried as Wes began walking back to their parents' awning. The elder merely laughed, while a small written note made its way out to sea.

"I think I've done this before. I don't remember it, but I feel like one of my wishes has been granted before.

"This isn't a wish, though. It's just that I know I should be grateful to whoever you are, even if the ocean itself grants wishes. I'm sure you've helped me somehow.

"So thank you. Thank you so much."

[read--and--riot]

Handlebars: A Soul Eater Fanfic

Hello everyone! This is my current baby and I hope you all like it! A great big thank you to unboundbymusic and eatmoretoast for betaing this for me! Also, there is some character death in here, just a warning!

—-

Wesley Evans stepped out of the sleek, black car that had picked him up from school. He barely made it up the stairs before his younger brother, Soul, had thrown the doors of their home open. Soul was rushing at him, a large smile plastered on his face as he waved a piece of paper for Wes to see. When he finally got the younger boy to calm down, he took the drawing from his brother’s tiny three year old hands— it showed their very crudely drawn family. He looked it over one last time before turning his attention back to his excited brother.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Wes smiled, bent down, lifted up Soul and spun him around. “I love it, little brother. Let’s get mother to put it on the fridge.”

He then put down the still-giggling Soul and allowed him to take his hand,  tugging him in  the direction of the kitchen.

——

Wes got out of the car and was almost run over by a flash of pale white hair on a bike.

“Look Wes,” six year old Soul called out. “No hands!”

Wes laughed, stepping towards the stairs that went up to their house, avoiding his little brother who rode his bike around the front yard, cackling maniacally. He was teetering dangerously, Wes noticed. He called out to him to tell him to use his hands again, please.

Soul only went faster.

——

“Wes, Wes, Wes!” Soul’s voice echoed from the piano room, down the hall from where Wes currently was resting after a long day of school.

“Look what I learned!”

When Wes entered the room he was greeted by the continually uncontrollable mop of white that was attached to seven year old Soul, who was  sitting on the piano bench in front of the large grand piano, his feet dangling down, straining to reach towards the pedals. He sat with his back straight and tall as he began to play with a natural ease that only came with years of practice, each note echoing throughout the room before being replaced by the next. It was beautiful, it was way ahead of what the skill level of the average seven year old should be able to do. It was better than even most twenty year olds could do.

As the last notes faded out, Soul looked up at his big brother expectantly. “Did you like it?” he asked.

Wes smiled. “I loved it.”

——-

Their father was still yelling, Wes noticed.  He had been yelling at Soul for the past hour.

Soul had long since given up replying, or rather, Wes hadn’t heard him reply.

Soul had missed a few notes during his last recital, which had brought their father’s wrath upon him.  Wes knew his brother didn’t like playing the piano anymore. Soul may have loved it as a young child but, at the age of ten, he hated it with a passion.

Wes wasn’t stupid. He knew what it was from— the secretive, snide comments said just loud enough to hurt, the haughty stares and the voices that quieted as he walked by.

People talked about Soul, Wes knew it. He tried to stop them, but they spoke out anyway, saying that Soul was not as good as Wes, that their parents must be ashamed about how low-leveled his playing was. They said so many things. Most of them where lies. Soul was great at playing the piano, fantastic even, he didn’t play the violin so the comparison between the brothers was not apt. Their parents were not ashamed.

At the start of the whispering, they told him to block out the voices and the harsh words, but slowly their positions changed. Wes’ mother began to doubt his brother, but she never voiced her doubts to anyone, much less Soul. Their father was different, he was very, very vocal about his doubts. The first time he yelled at Soul it was after a concert. Soul was seven and a half. He had messed up about ten  notes that Wes could tell. Ten total in the entire performance.

Today it was three. Three notes wrong, they were hardly even noticeable.

But their father noticed. Wes noticed. Their mother noticed.

Almost half an hour later when the yelling had stopped, Soul had slunk past his brother’s room, his shoulders hunched and his eyes down. He glanced up as he passed Wes’s door before glancing back down. He looked betrayed.

—-

When Soul was eleven, Wes heard his true music for the first time. It was loud, sounding like a clash of notes, a cacophony. It echoed through the empty halls of their mansion. It pulled Wes from his sleep, but what kept him up wasn’t the music, it was the quiet tears that came with it —from both sides of the walls.  

—-

Soul’s piano playing was hollow now. It lacked the necessary emotion for the tone of the piece. He played it well, of course, holding each note for the night amount of time before he released it, the pressure he kept on the keys correct. It was hard to notice, but Wes saw it. Their entire family saw it. Wes’ father screamed at Soul, his mother asked Soul calmly what was wrong.

Soul only shook his head before turning back to the black and white keys before him, blocking them out as he played once more, perfecting his piece, his back straight.

But at night it echoed, all the cords he wouldn’t play in the light of day came out as he sat, well past midnight, slumped over the keys as he played, the sound of his shattered heart ringing in every note.

____

“Wes, look,” Soul said his voice devoid of emotion. “I don’t want you to freak out, but there’s something I need to show you.”

Wes was startled, Soul hardly ever seemed to want to show him what he could do any more. Gone were the days when Wes would come home to a excitedly bouncing little brother, ready and willing to share with Wes what he did and what he learned. He didn’t want to miss this chance, to show Soul he was there for him, to help him. “Ok,” was all he said.

Soul took a deep breath and held up his arm. There was a flash of light and in the place of his arm, from the elbow up, was a blade. It was red, black and sharp. A gasp caught in Wes’s throat as he stared. His brother was a weapon.

After some time, Soul broke the silence Wes had unintentionally created, the blade flashing as it returned to his brother’s flesh and bone.

“Well?” was all Soul asked, his voice nearly breaking.

—-

The first time Wes got a phone call after Soul left for the DWMA was very exciting. He could hear the joy and delight in Soul’s voice as he spoke about his new friends, his teachers, his meister.  He told him about the start of the school year, about his new apartment, how he was being trained to transform completely. He sounded truly enthusiastic, something Wes hadn’t heard in a very long time. Soul spoke quickly into the phone, his excitement nearly palpable. Wes was happy for him.

—-

Wes hadn’t heard anything from his brother in two years. He had seen some news clippings here and there, but there wasn’t a lot. He understood Soul’s desire to get away from it all, the pressure and the fame. But it hurt Wes  to be cut out alongside the bad and ugly sides of Soul’s life, along with the suffering and the pain. He understood, he felt the same way as Soul, sometimes. But being left behind would always still hurt.

—-

When Soul was seventeen he called for the first time in years. His call was composed entirely of hushed apologies. He would be going to the moon the next morning, to combat the Kishin, a monster that resided there. He apologised, saying that he was sorry he didn’t call Wes before, that he thought he would have had more time. He said all this in a hushed voice and when Wes asked him why he answered that his meister was in the room down the hall and he didn’t want to worry her or wake her up, on the off chance she was asleep.

—-

When Wes finally saw Soul again, he was eighteen. Wes wished he hadn’t seen him. Soul’s skin was pale and bloodless. He was cold as he rested in his black coffin. His hair was perfectly combed and there was a girl at his side. Her green eyes were rimmed with red as she turned to look at him. Wes could see the recognition in her eyes, after all, he and Soul had always looked so, so similar.

The girl’s name was Maka.

She was Soul’s meister.

She had loved his brother.

She blamed herself and Wes could tell from the look on her face that she always would.

She didn’t say any of it, Wes could just tell. He could feel it, almost. Her pain, her sadness, her guilt. They seemed almost palpable.

His mother placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed softly. She understood, she had always been good at reading people.

His father, however, was not. He was yelling now, yelling at this girl he didn’t know. About how it was her fault that his son was dead.

Maka didn’t reply, but from where Wes stood, facing her back beside his father, he could see her shaking. He could see his mother tighten her grip on her shoulder.

Wes never spoke up to his father as a child when Soul was yelled at. He had always shut his door and hid. But Soul was dead now, at least he could stand up for this girl.

“Stop, Father,” Wes said, his voice firm. “It’s not her fault. It was Soul’s choice.”

—-

The funeral was sombre, there was a lot of crying and the speeches were nice. Maka had stopped crying now, but Wes suspected that it was more likely that she had run out of tears than that she was over it. Her jaw was set in a straight line and her eyes were dull. She smiled a few times, when she gave her eulogy. His brother was so important to her that Wes almost cried again, like he did when  he heard the news. If he hadn’t been trained to control his emotions in public, he would have.

—-

He meet her again, a few years later. She was twenty-two now and he could tell she was still heartbroken.

It amazed him how much she was like his brother. They must have rubbed off on each other a lot, especially if his traits still stuck with her five years later.

He  wished he could have seen his brother before he passed, he wished his brother hadn’t left this girl so soon, if at all.

“I found something while I was cleaning out his stuff, I felt that I should show you,” Maka said, handing him an envelope.

It was a letter, addressed to him.

—-

Wes had always wanted Soul was his best man at his wedding, but that wasn’t to be. Instead, Wes’s friend stood were Soul should have.

Wes was happy to be marrying his beautiful wife.

He just really missed Soul.

—-

Wesley Evans stepped out of the sleek, black car that had picked him up from school. He barely made it up the stairs before his child had thrown the doors of their home open. He was rushing at him, a large smile plastered on his face as he waved a piece of paper for Wes to see. When he finally got the young boy to calm down, he took the drawing from his child’s tiny three year old hands— it showed their very crudely drawn family. He looked it over one last time before turning his attention back to his excited son.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Wes smiled, bent down, lifted up him and spun him around. “I love it, Soul. Let’s get your mother to put it on the fridge.”

He then put down the still-giggling Soul and allowed him to take his hand,  tugging him in  the direction of the kitchen.