A/N: I don't know why this rushed at me one morning like oncoming traffic; I haven't even heard this song in awhile. Yet here it is. I'm sorry.
The song belongs to Pearl Jam, the assholes. As this has three substantial parts, I decided to pull it from Little Black Submarines to make it easier to read together. The first two parts were written back to back months ago, and the third was just completed for SoMa week.
The overall title of the fic is a bit of a lyric from Ke$ha's "Harold's Song," which is referenced in the second part.
I swear I recognize your breath.
Memories, like fingerprints, are slowly raising.
You wouldn't recall, for I'm not my former…
It's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf.
I changed by not changing at all,
Small town predicts my fate,
Perhaps that's what no one wants to see.
The bell rang merrily and she raised her green eyes to see who had entered her little shop. It was odd, this early in the season, at this time of day, to have customers, but she welcomed them, welcomed the distraction.
And then, her heart froze.
It was him.
Because thirty years come and gone, she would still know him anywhere. Sure, his white hair was speckled gray now, sure his face was lined with care, but still, she knew him. She would always, always know him.
Their eyes met across the store, but if he recognized her, he said nothing. He simply nodded a greeting and disappeared into the back to browse.
Surely he hadn't recognized her; her hair was graying now, too, her own face worn. More probably, though, he had forgotten her. She swallowed down a painful lump.
She wished she could forget him so easily.
Memories flooded her, unbidden, and thirty years suddenly felt like yesterday.
They'd met when they were children. Her family lived in a small, seaside tourist town, his owned a cottage there and came every summer.
When she was 9 and he was 10, she went to her special place to be alone. Mama and Papa were fighting again, but she could always find solace under the little pier across from their house. Only, this time, there was someone there.
"Excuse me," she'd said, trying to remember to be polite like her Mama had taught her she should, "this is my spot, so if you don't mind…"
She trailed off. He didn't move, still sitting, hunched into himself, half in shadows. She heard a sniff, walked closer.
She saw too bright eyes. He was crying.
"But, um, I guess you can stay, if you want." He looked strange. He lookedinteresting. His hair was bright.
And he was sad.
Maybe he was like her. Maybe they could be friends.
"I was going to play house," she smiled down at him. "I like to pretend to be the Mama, but I have to pretend that pillar," she motioned to the one behind him, "is the Papa. But you could be the Papa this time if you want."
He didn't say anything, just blinked up at her for a minute. Then, finally, he stood.
"House is for babies," he insisted.
She felt indignation welling up, because who was he to invade her sanctuary and then call her a baby? Her little fist curled into a tight ball. She'd show him who was a baby.
She cocked her arm back and punched him, hard.
"Hey!" he yelped, scrambling back and rubbing his sore arm with his free hand. "What the hell!"
"Who's a baby now?" she grinned, triumphant. "And don't say hell, it's a bad word."
"Hell hell hell!" he sing songed, and she rushed forward and punched him again.
"Ouch!" he shrieked. "Stop it you—you—pigtailed freak!"
"Better than a cry baby!" she yelled back.
He blinked at that, all anger fled, and his eyes looked shiny once more.
Oh no. She hadn't meant… oh no no no. She didn't mean to make him cry again.
She walked forward until she was closer to him, catching his eyes and holding them with her own. They were red, red as her Papa's hair, red as the center of a flame on a cold night. She'd never seen eyes like that. Even back then, she thought them beautiful. Exotic. Like she could escape in them to another world, another life, a better one.
"Um, anyway. I'm gonna play house, okay? But—I'd really like it if you'd be the Papa. Even if you think it's for babies. Please?"
He let out a breath. "I guess," he crossed his arms. "But you gotta play Star Wars with me when we're done, okay?"
"Deal!" she said happily, holding out her hand.
"Deal," he repeated, taking it and grasping it warmly.
"So, um, what's your name? After all, I should know the name of my husband," she said as she moved her hand back.
"Soul," he said. He sounded hesitant.
"Oh, wow, that's a neat name! Kinda like my Papa!" He grinned at that, a genuine smile full of oddly sharp teeth, and she grinned back. She liked his smile, strange though it was, liked the idea of having a friend who wasn't Blake. "My name's Maka!"
"Maka, sounds cool."
"Yeah, cool!" she agreed.
And from then on, they'd been friends.
They met under the pier most days. His parents owned the large cottage at the end of the street and they both had reason to get away. She couldn't take the fighting; he couldn't take the expectation, the disappointment.
They didn't talk about it, not then. They just played. Star Wars. Doctor. House. One day, he ventured a kiss, because husbands were supposed to kiss their wives, a small peck on the mouth, childish and sweet.
It was her first kiss, the only time he ever kissed her, and she suspected it was his, too.
She never forgot it.
The summer ended and he left.
She never forgot him.
By the next summer, when Maka was 10 and Soul was 11, her Mama was gone and her Papa was lost to women and drink. She had even more reason to be out of the house.
Blake started hanging around, and he and Soul hit it off. Maka was jealous; she felt like her to best friends had stolen each other away from her. Still, better as third wheel than being stuck in her house alone.
The summer after, Blake was away at camp most of the time, and Maka and Soul only had each other again. She was 11 and he was 12 and they had outgrown playing house. They played board games instead, and cards. Sometimes she went to his cottage and played video games. Sometimes, his older brother would come in. With his pale blond hair and burgundy eyes, he reminded Maka of the sun and the sand, and he was always so nice, not like Soul; Soul was always sullen. Still, she understood why. Because that summer, they really talked, shared their secrets, because both were tired of being alone, because both just wanted someone, anyone, to understand.
Maka told him how her parents had fought, how her Papa had betrayed her Mama over and over again, how she first met him because she used to hide, to pretend everything was okay, would be okay if she just wished hard enough. It never was. And now, her Papa spent his time drinking and hopping from bed to bed, living off the income of the lucrative little shop he had built with his ex-wife, living like a man possessed. He called her baby and sweetheart and bought her anything and everything she wanted. He doted on her and coddled her and told her he loved her best. When, that is, he was actually home. Lies, all lies. If he loved her best, then why was he always somewhere else?
Soul told her about his family. About his father, the famous pianist, the famous businessman, his mother the flautist, and his brother the violinist. About how he was expected to be just as good as his father and his brother and his mother and how he never quite met their expectations. Other people called him a prodigy; his father saw him as a failure. He told her about how he was supposed to practice hours a day, about how the only reason his parents agreed to come here in the summers was because he and Wes had insisted it would help them focus. They thought he was practicing, mostly, when he was with her. They were too busy on day trips and week trips with friends and clients to know the difference, and really, why should they? He was just the second son, second best, not worthy of their notice. Really, he was starting to prefer it that way. Really.
Summers came and summers went.
The summer that Maka was 13 and Soul was 14, Blake once more spent most of his time off at camp. Maka and Soul spent most of their time together, though Wes kept hanging around them. He was handsome and charming and five years older than Soul, and Maka gave him all her focus when he was there. Soul started teasing her mercilessly. He called her tiny tits and fat ankles and told her she'd never get a boyfriend. She called him shark face and jerkwad and told him she didn't want one and never would.
She didn't quite notice the look of hurt that sometimes flashed across his face, though years later, she recognized it for what it was and it stung.
The summer when Maka was 14 and Soul was 15, a Japanese foreign exchange student came to stay with Blake's family. Her name was Tsubaki. She was 17 and had hair like the night sky and eyes like the sea. She put up with Blake's boasting; it actually made her smile. He softened himself around her; he actually cared what she thought.
Maka thought maybe that's what love looked like. They all spent time together, all enjoyed the sun and the sand. But summer came and summer went and Tsubaki left and didn't come back.
Blake was never the same.
If that was love, then Maka could do without.
The next summer, Maka was 15 and Soul was 16. Blake was off again, and somehow, someway, Soul had managed to wheedle a motorcycle out of his parents. He wanted to take her out. She balked; those things were dangerous, those things were death traps! He pleaded, she relented, she secretly loved it, the wind in her hair, his warm back against her chest. They spent half the summer on the bike, watching the stars from the cliffs the town over, leaned together, sharing warmth. He was her best friend, even if she only saw him in the summer. When fall came and he left, she cried every night for a week. She felt empty and alone with him not there, and Blake was far too busy mourning Tsubaki to notice or care. Her Papa noticed nothing but himself.
The summer that Maka was 16 and Soul was 17, they were inseparable, as they had been for years. They grew closer, and he never teased her anymore, and she never punched him when he was a jerk. Blake was around, but it didn't matter, Soul didn't care. They started holding hands. Neither commented, neither said what it meant, but it felt warm and right. They snuggled a lot, hugged a lot, talked about everything. He had just graduated; his parents wanted him to go to Julliard, but he wanted to see the world. She was going to be a senior; she wanted to go away to school in a year, somewhere far from her Papa, far from this place.
Then he shared an idea. Wouldn't it be nice, he said, if they went to school together? He thought it would be.
She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. She knew she was in love with him. She thought he might love her, too, but love was fleeting. It was painful. It never lasted.
Love would always only ever disappoint.
She was afraid to love him, to be with him. Couldn't their friendship be enough?
That summer went by too fast, but it was the best time of her life.
The last night of the season, their last night together, he kept his eyes carefully to the sky, to the clouds and the glimmering stars.
She had been talking about how people always disappoint. Her Papa, her Mama, Tsubaki. She had come to expect it.
"Do you think," he said, voice soft and hesitant, "you could ever find someone who won't disappoint you?"
Yes! her heart screamed at her, I found you, but doubt clawed at her mind, and instead, she answered,
"No, I don't think such a person exists."
He nodded once, then inched his hand over to hold hers, carefully, so carefully as if it might shatter in his grasp.
"I hope you do." He sounded so sad, so fragile, that she wanted to hold him. He was sad for her.
"Who knows, maybe I will."
Maybe I already have.
They stayed that way, holding hands on the beach until sunrise, lost in a sea of their own private thoughts.
By midmorning he was gone.
She resolved that next summer, she would tell him. That she she loved him. That she thought going to school together would be nice, too. She would give him the chance to prove her wrong. She hoped he wanted that chance.
The next summer came and then the next, but he never did; two summers gone, two summers without him, she realized the truth.
He didn't want it, didn't want her. She had been wrong.
In the end, he only disappointed her, too.
But she was a fool. He had made her foolish and she held out hope as summers came and summers went. Boys began to notice her, but she always turned them down.
She shouldn't have loved him this much. He'd been a jerk half the time and they'd never even been together, never been more than friends. She shouldn't have loved him this much, but she did and she couldn't change it.
She went off to college. Went on a few dates. It never lasted. None of them were him.
Every summer she came home.
Every summer he wasn't there.
His family sold their cottage. He wasn't coming back. Still, her heart yearned. Still, her heart hoped. Still, her heart waited.
She graduated and went home. There was nothing there for her, but still, she went.
She and Blake spent more time together again, like they had when they were kids. Like she had with Soul. He'd finished school, too, come home, too.
Loss was their bond—he'd never gotten over Tsubaki either. It felt somehow right to bond with another shadow.
A year passed of her working in her father's shop, of Blake giving sailing lessons.
One day he came in, face too serious. It was the end of the season and the shop was dead; her father was off with one of his women, like always.
His eyes were dead, too, but his voice was alive.
"Go out with me on Friday," he said, a command not a question.
"You know I can't."
"We've both been waiting too long. They aren't coming back, you have to know that. We have to move on. Thought maybe—maybe we could try it together. You know you're one of the few minions I can stand."
She sighed but nodded because what harm?
He wasn't coming back; she wasn't coming back. Perhaps two shadows could build something of substance.
One date became a dozen became living together. A year later, they moved away together; there was nothing left to wait for.
They understood each other. They both knew their hearts belonged to others, hopelessly, uselessly, but they were friends, they loved each other in that way. He knew she'd always think of him and she knew he'd always think of her and that was okay.
They built a life. It wasn't the life either wanted, but it was better than nothing. They had three spirited children they couldn't regret. Yes, they were better as friends—they butted heads constantly, spectacularly—but even still, both preferred that to being alone.
Better than living as shadows.
When Blake died of a heart attack at 49, she mourned her husband and her friend, but still, she thought of him.
Was he happy? Did he ever dream of her as she dreamed of him? Had he loved her as she loved him?
But no, he couldn't have. If he had, he would have come back.
Blake, she knew, would still be waiting for her wherever he had gone.
Again, Maka was alone, again, she was a shadow. Really, hadn't she always been?
She moved back home after decades away. Opened a small bookstore. With their youngest in college, what else was there to do with herself?
And now—now—over three decades later, he was back.
Why did he come back?
She'd thought his memory was but a shade, that it had faded to match her empty soul.
She hadn't thought it could hurt this much.
"Did you find everything okay?" she asked, too brightly, as he approached the counter, a book on the hidden wonders of Death City clutched in one hand.
His red eyes rose to meet hers, as piercing as she remembered them, and he slid over the amount shown on the register.
"Not sure, but I'm hoping I will. Gonna be here for awhile." His voice was gruff, the same, yet different. He was the same, yet different. And yet—and yet—he was still her Soul.
"Oh, well, I hope you find what you're looking for, Soul." She tried to keep her voice even as she spoke the name he hadn't given, but it was impossible. She swallowed thickly, drowning in his impossibly red eyes.
"Me too, Maka. Me too."
As he walked out, walked away, she wondered if shadows could regain something like substance.
Maybe she would even live to find out.