YEHAAAAAA happy reverb 2017! this year i got to work with chaoticlivi for her story, and working with her is, as always, a pleasure. she is the bomb dot com, and definitely go check out her art on her tumblr sometime because it's also the bomb dot com and SOUL'S HEADBAND TIARA, DUDE.
also on top of her being a great partner she was also my beta. like. so many thanks. the best. the coolest (tm).
The night really is rather beautiful.
It's not that he's never had the chance to admire the stars before. He has. He has two eyes, both that work quite well, and he has windows, of course, in his quarters; he's seen the night sky, spent many nights holed up in his room as a child huddled in the curtains, head stuck out a window in quiet awe. Some nights, when Wes wasn't busy with the tomes left for him to study from his tutors, he'd join, too, pointing out constellations and grinning at his younger brother's ooohs and aaahs.
He's seen stars before, of course. It's just been a long time since he's been able to appreciate them.
Soul flattens his palms against the grass and leans back, face aimed to the sky. There's something special about it, really. Between the twinkling lights of the stars and the crisp breeze of the early summer night - perhaps it's not even the night sky that's lulling him into such a sense of serenity at all. Perhaps, he thinks, cracking his neck, peeking down through the line of his nose to watch Maka tend to the campfire, it's the temporary sense of freedom and rebellion that's lead him down this path.
It makes his fingers itch. He tugs and plucks at the grass to sate his nerves. Goddess, and just like that, he's right back where he'd started, anxiety plucking away at his heartstrings as if they're a harp.
She hums and pokes at the fire. "Enjoying yourself, your Highness?"
He feels himself wince. "You know how I feel about that."
Shrugging, she plops down to sit on her butt. So unceremonious. It's strange to think about; she's lived her life in a tiny village, has fought tooth and nail and slayed monsters and traitors alike, certainly has dirt beneath her chewed fingernails - she's nothing, nothing like the ladies his mother likes to parade around him - and it's almost comfortable to be around her. More comfortable than it should be, for a girl he has known only half a year. For a girl who has never been trained a day in her life for things like proper manners, court formality, music - she's plucky, she's almost boyish, and when she smiles at him mischievously, Soul practically breaks out into a flush.
Stupid. It's just Maka, in her stupid green cap, and her stupid tights and stupid long legs and clumsy stupid feet.
"Sorry," she says finally, after only a moment longer of playful grinning. "It's just- you know, it's kind of what I'm supposed to do, right? Mister first-in-line for the throne?"
He is no such thing, and he never will be. "I'm the second born son for a reason, Maka."
The campfire crackles between them, and she's got this glow about her. Golden firelight makes her look even blonder than normal. Sort of washes out her features and leaves nothing but harsh shadows and warm light and evergreen eyes. "You know that's not true."
Maybe he's the dirt under her nails. Soul squirms, arranges his legs more neatly, still not accustomed to hanging out and camping, as Maka had put it. "I know Wes would make a far better king than I'll ever. And that's a fact."
"I think you'd be a fine king someday."
Perhaps, if someday wasn't on the immediate horizon. Soul shreds the grass in his hand and tosses it lifelessly into the fire. "You'd be a better ruler. You're smart, Maka. You know things about the people. You've met the people."
He thinks she might pink, a bit, at the prospect, but then she leans forward and her entire face glows gold instead. There's this look about her, this curious smile he can't read, and then Maka's lips are pressed together like she's holding back a secret.
But he doesn't push, Maka shrugs her shoulders, and the moment simmers between them like kindling. "Your mother would never have it," she says, then, shuffling, leaning back so that she may take her shift in watching the stars. "I don't really know all the schematics, you know? I mean, I guess I know them, if you count running around and sleeping in the woods and crawling around in dungeons. I think-"
A bitten lip has never been quite so distracting. Gotta be the way the fading firelight flickers over it. Draws attention to it. Yeah. "...Hm?"
She sits there for a long while, quiet and thoughtful. Without her dutiful tending, their light (and heat) wanes, and Soul wishes he'd brought a thicker set of night clothes. Wishes he'd brought his own tent, too.
"... I think you'll do just fine. I'd trust you, if you wanted to lead me, anyway. I'd follow you anywhere."
It's hard to see, but he can just make out the sad shape of her smile, the tight way the corners of her lips curl.
She's wrong.
But he won't say it to her face. Can't. Not while she's looking at him like that.
.
Wes is the rightful heir to the throne.
Honestly, Soul doesn't even want it.
He doesn't think he wants it.
He's… never really had to worry about it, anyway. It's always been understood that it was Wes's duty, Wes's inheritance - the first-born Evans boy would rule and lead Hyrule, and Soul, second-born fuckup, would… sit around and look pretty, maybe. Hopefully find some use for his prim, top-notch education. Play the harp and try to melt into the background and not get singled out by some noble woman for marriage.
It was easier, living without expectations, because they scare the everloving piss out of him. On a good day, prince Sullivan lounges around the castle and fiddles away on one of his instruments where no one can hear him and - months ago - haunted his brother's image like a shadow. Bad days, he'd pace his room, shut his curtains and hide away, scrawling music over loose sheets of paper like it was his goddess-given job.
Even after
And then Wes went missing.
.
The ground is unforgiving on his back.
He sleeps terribly, and it's obvious Maka doesn't; she's out of the bedroll at the crack of dawn, irritatingly bright-eyed and alert, rising to rinse her face and begin breakfast while he yanks the blanket further over his face and tries to drown out the chirping of the birds. Wonders, as the sun rises and it grows more and more difficult to ignore the bright morning light, how any person can be coherent and functional at this hour.
It's not fair. She can't be the warrior and the morning person. Maka cannot have it all.
Soul groans as he sits up, squinting. Cotton mouthed and sore, he cracks his neck. Winces. Grunts and then squirms, shifting, waiting until his back creaks too and the sound of eggs frying finally registers.
Right. Breakfast.
"Good morning, Prince Charming," Maka chirps, grinning. Her braid's still sleep ruffled, and stray hair is left curling around her neck, blonde whispies. An ache blossoms in his chest, and more than anything, he wants to smooth the hair back, help plait it into something more orderly - she's so clumsy with those hands, hands so talented at slaying and protecting but still somehow so graceless.
He does no such thing, of course. Just grunts his greeting and slumps down onto a rock to sit groggily instead. "Don't call me that."
She sighs and shakes her head, still smiling. "How'd you sleep?"
"No comment."
"You sleep talk, you know." He stares at her, long and hard. Her humor doesn't dwindle. In fact, she's downright mischievous, clearly straining to keep herself from breaking out into a laugh. Soul doesn't like it, not one bit. "Something about begging me to protect you from the Chuchu?"
He slept terribly, and Soul really does not care to give in to her playful ribbing and elaborate on the finer details of such. The ground is unforgiving, he repeats to himself, ironing his expression, calling upon years of composure lessons and court-appropriate posture. Push back those shoulders, hold himself high. Do not waver and let the pretty heroine know the prince of Hyrule is gravely terrified of Chuchu, of all things, for Goddess's sake.
Soul's hands press to his lap as he says, "No comment."
"You're safe in my hands, you know." That ache fragments, shatters like a mirror, and Soul gulps as she slides him over a plate of eggs. "You're funny."
"There's nothing funny about it, Maka. They're gross. And slimey. That- it's the consistency, you know?" Ugh, how is he supposed to eat, now that he's thinking about it? Wobbly yellow yolk stares back at him and his stomach turns. "Ugh."
She smiles, but it's without her teeth. Polite, for a girl who rolls around in the dirt and can't seem to braid her hair tight enough. "You can stand up to Asura, but you can't handle a Chuchu?"
Red burns all the way to his pointed ears. Exposed! he thinks, quickly gobbling his breakfast to avoid gracing her teasing with any further justification. It makes sense to him; he's never been particularly brave. Soul's never worked that way, never functioned on the same base-level courage that fuels his traveling companion. No, standing up to Asura shouldn't be a point of reference. In the moment - in that harsh, horrifying moment, it had never been a matter of choice. There'd been obligation, a blood-rushing instinct to aid her, to help her, to protect her, and, well, he'd done what he could. What little he could.
He rubs at his chest idly. It still itches, if he thinks about it. Scar tissue against his sleepshirt. Any shirt.
It seems to sober her, too. Maka scrapes egg out of the pan and onto her plate.
.
Obligation might be the wrong word.
They share a connection. It is undeniable. Historic, even; there are legends about her, she the wielder of courage, a destined hero, and he- he, well, a prince, part of the royal family. He, a leader, at least in previous lives. And it's uncomfortable, sometimes, to think about it - that part of his life seems to have already been written out for him. Unnerves him. He's never been very good at staying between the lines; his watercolors always bleed through.
Nonetheless, they share it. They're been reincarnated hundreds of times, met each other in nearly every incarnation. Sometimes, he wonders if they get along so well because of it, because his soul already knows hers. For every moment he spends uncomfortable with the prospect of destiny and living up to a legacy, there are three more he spends thankful having met her. Like a completed half of a whole, finally. His missing piece.
She's different in the way she thinks and the way she talks. She walks so unapologetically three steps ahead, blonde hair bobbing behind her. Her steps are heavy, and her boots have been through the ringer and back and- and her sword sits holstered on her hip, satchel square on her back. She's armed and dangerous, ready for anything.
He's not. He wishes he was. Just a little more brave, really. Wishes she'd lend some of her characteristic bravery and let him learn how to stick it out himself. Wishes he trusted himself to learn the blade, the way Wes had; wishes he had a way to protect himself, should things get messy.
Sometimes, though, she's the same. Sometimes when she's peeling off her cap and tossing it to the ground in a fit of frustration, he sees shades of himself. When she cries, kicks and screams and fights tooth and nail, he sees himself, in the way she throws her body around, resistant, resilient. Especially, he thinks, in the way she'd looked at him, when his father had taken him aside and told him of Wes's disappearance. Steady realization that everything was about to change, whether they were ready or not.
They teeter on the cusp of change, and Soul's not sure if he'll ever be ready for it.
.
Still, though, they persevere.
He should thank her, probably, for dropping everything and accompanying him on his journey to find his brother. She could have stayed behind, surely; could have said no, and he could have found royal guards to come with him, because like Hell he'd stand a chance on the outskirts of the castle without some sort of combat training. And he'd understand if she did; they're fated, sure, to be comrades, but nowhere is it written that she must babysit him.
Perhaps a thanks is in order. It'd be polite to extend his gratitude.
Soul cups his hand over his eyes and squints. In the midday sun, it's hard to make out anything at all, except for the green of Maka's back, the nearly hypnotic shifting of her pigtails, back and forth. For a moment, he's tempting to fall into the lull of that, instead, of the bobbing of blonde hair - it's mesmerizing, almost, in this dead heat - but then she turns her head to look at him, and he's as good as busted.
Her brows raise. "Soul?"
Uuuuh. Is there a way to play off being caught staring without being totally obvious? Uncomfortable, he jerks his chin and stares off into the distance instead. "Huh."
"... Is everything okay? You slowed down."
Did he? He hadn't noticed. Too preoccupied watching her hair. "Uh," he starts, the cogs in his brain slowly turning. It's not like he can just up and admit to her that he'd accidentally lost his pace because he'd been staring at her, Goddess. That's just- uncomfortable, to say the least. Embarrassing. Much too emotionally forward for the likes of him. "Sorry."
She turns fully. One pigtail slaps her, right on the cheek, a splay of blonde caught on her lip and dammit, he's staring again. "You didn't answer my question, you know."
He may not be trained in swordplay, but by Din, he's a professional at dodging. "What question?"
Squinting, she says, very sternly, "Soul."
"You didn't have to come with me."
It takes her by surprise. Her mouth opens and closes twice before she seems to finally find the words she's looking for - and that's fair, he guesses. He'd bought himself time to find his own bravery. Or bluntness.
She exhales first. Blows the hair from the dampness of her lips. Still, there's a certain gleam about her, and he knows that it's probably nothing flowery or pretty and definitely just sweat, but still - he's easily distracted these days, it seems, and Maka says, "I wanted to."
So no-nonsense. Just like her.
He doesn't know how to respond to that. Her honesty always seems to cut just a smidge deeper, burn that little bit brighter.
But now he's on the spot, and stalling isn't coming as easily, now that she's got her two-rupees in, too. "... I don't see why you'd want to come," he says then, after gawking at her, sun burning his eyes. "It's not exactly fun. I have no idea where we're going, or where even to begin-"
"What're friends for?" she asks. Her shield catches the light just right and he's momentarily blind, recoiling back and scowling. "Oh!"
"OW-"
"Sorry, sorry!" Maka gasps, shoving her shield back. It's not like it makes a difference; the damage has been done, the moment sufficiently ruined, and that honest, stomach-twisting truth that'd begun coiling between them fizzles into the midday heat.
He tells himself the sweat dripping down the line of his spine is from the sun, and not the way she'd look at him, not the way she'd seemed to be able to read between his carefully-constructed lines with disturbing ease. Certainly not the way she'd butted through his awkwardness, and his pussyfooting, with that bullheaded stubbornness of hers - she's like some sort of storm, a tornado, fearless and dangerous. Passionate. Brave.
No, it's certainly because he's overheating. The only clothing he really has is proper garb, after all. Nothing lightweight and breathable, like she has - no tunics, breezy hemlines, almost improper, if not for her tights.
"I'm the worst," she blurts, and she looks torn, for a moment, caught between rushing over to check on him and hanging back, shield shoved back behind her. Mirror shield, he thinks, with a grimace; it's her damn mirror shield, no wonder it'd fried him like the eggs she'd cooked him for breakfast. "Sorry, are you alright, your Highness?"
His stomach twists again, suddenly. "Maka."
She looks at him, in that unblinking, fearless sort of way. "Sir," she says, so full of contradictions, as if she's not looking him in the eye the way friends might. The twisting continues, and Soul think the heat might actually make him sick.
Perhaps she notices. Maka approaches, hands outstretched, palms open, and he does not waver. She slips a glove off, and her hands are warm on his face, skin soft along the back of his forehead. He's sweaty and gross, and his bangs must be plastered to him, but she doesn't seem deterred.
A click of her tongue. "You're hot."
He wouldn't dare misinterpret that. No, not a prince, never. Soul grimaces instead. "I'm not cut out for this."
"What, adventuring?" She smiles, then, in a crooked way that reminds him too much of himself. His fingers itch. "I think you're just a little sheltered, Sir."
"A little," he says, then blows his bangs from his face. It's rough, being out here without any sort of hair gel to keep his mane in place. Rough, and sweat only allows him to slick his hair back so far before things start to get oily, and that's just not good for anybody. He wonders, then, how she can stand wearing that cap in this heat. Wonders what tough stuff Maka must be made of to be so unbothered by the glisten of sweat, sleek along her forehead.
She's still grinning. He simmers. "It's fine, though. It's what I'm here for, isn't it? To protect you?" Rubbing her forearm, she continues. "I'm escorting you on your quest."
It's so much more than that.
"Yeah," he says instead, because he's a coward and tongue tied and manners have been drilled into him since birth but he cannot stop staring at her, help him, someone. Absolute coward. She's a head shorter and still, he can do nothing but bask in her glory, the way her brow sets as he purses his lips and chooses his words. "... Something like that."
"Something? I thought that's why you asked me to come along. It's why your entourage didn't tag along, right?" She cocks her head at him, not unlike a bird. "Because they trust me to keep you safe."
She is a hero, after all. And her reasoning had been his very excuse, but ugh. Ugh. His poor hummingbird heart refuses to stop slamming in his chest. Soul picks at his collar instead. Needs to keep his hands busy, so that he won't feel the urge to reach for hers. "... It's safer, with you around."
"I have a sword."
"Not… just that." They're wasting daylight, but Soul thinks he sees the sunrise in her, in this brief, too-honest moment. "You make things easier to deal with. You're safe to be around, like there's… like I don't have to go it alone."
Does she understand? Can she? He'd feel safer by her side than protected by stone and brick, safer watching her lead with a sword in hand than behind an entire army. It's more than just the journey. More than just her aiding him in his quest to find his brother. Bigger.
Soul-deep. Fated. Destiny makes his blood burn and his head hurt, but there's something soothing in the way her lashes flutter as she blinks. Like dandelion fuzz. Soft, like if they were to brush his skin they might tickle. Like the flutter of butterfly wings, on the inside of his chest, circling his heart.
Soul burns red. By the Goddess, what's gotten into him?
But she's warm, too, and it's gotta be more than just sunburn. She hadn't worn that particular shade of kissed-pink moments ago. She tugs at the end of her tunic and says, "Oh."
Oh.
That swirling, coiling in his stomach only gets worse. Maybe he really will get sick. "I- So. Thank you for coming, Maka."
He's so terribly awkward. Born and raised a prince, royal blood in his veins, and can't even talk to a pretty girl without stumbling over his own two feet. So disgustingly tongue-tied. It's just Maka. He's seen her covered in blood - some hers, some not. He's seen her cut down bad guys and former allies alike, seen her cry and kick and scream, seen her stare down the likes of Kid and Black*Star without even a flutter of hesitance. She's his other half, his strength, his heart.
Soul resumes burning. Might even burn brighter, actually.
"What're friends for, right?" She says again, but her smile is her own, this time. Chapped lips and annoyingly perfect teeth and all. Careless. Courageous. Free. The itching spreads to his palms, space left empty and clammy. "I wouldn't leave you alone in this anyways. It wouldn't feel right."
He's alone in this anyways. If not now, then later, if they can't find Wes. And even then...
Soul says to hell with it with his manners and drops to sit on the path, still sweating like a damn pig. Maka is still annoyingly undeterred and bright eyed. Grouchily, he scrubs at his face and tries not to allow himself to get tangled up in what-ifs. They'll drive him batty, if he lets them. Cannot allow himself to grasp at maybe-sos and could-bes.
She crouches in front of him and presses the back of her palm to his sweaty, gross forehead. Soul just about lights aflame right then and there. Definitely drops a mile. "Are you feeling okay? We can take a break, if you want. Here, I've got some water in my sack…"
.
A damn coward is what he is.
They're camping out again and Soul still cannot spit it out.
The words boil at the tip of his tongue. It should be easy. Simple, even - they've lived a thousand lives, sometimes together, sometimes not, but he knows her. His soul knows her, knows her the way he might a best friend, like he might the back of his hand. And something like this - asking for companionship, or partnership, or - it doesn't matter what he wants to call it, really. Asking for it shouldn't be so difficult.
They've been together in hundreds of lives. Why should this one be any different?
The campfire crackles as Maka tosses on another log. Amber shades along the length of her legs, her bare knees. His mother would blanch at the sight of Maka's sleep attire - a man's shirt and loose shorts - but Soul merely bites his tongue until he tastes the tang of blood.
Coward.
He really wishes he could put it into words. Wish he could tell her the honest, whole truth. Or at least borrow some of her legendary bravery and show her, maybe. But he'd never, goddess, no.
Tongue tied, he manages to spit out, "I miss him."
She blinks, then. Caught in the amber splay of light of their campfire, he thinks he might see the daylight break in her, again. Sees the sun peeking through the clouds, the realization washing over her.
Then, "He's your brother. It's normal to miss him."
"No." Not like that. Or… a little like that, okay. Soul misses his big brother Wes, the one who'd stargazed with him after hours in secret, the one who'd ruffled his hair and assured him that everything would be alright - but he misses crown prince Wes right now, in this moment. Confident, knowledgeable Wes, who'd always been better about talking to girls than Soul's ever been.
No, he thinks, very sternly. It's just that I've never really cared to try.
Her brows furrow. "It's very normal. I miss my mother all the time-"
"It's not- not that. I mean, I guess it's a little bit of that," he allows, shrugging. "But… I don't know how I'll do it, Maka. I know you think it'll be fine, but I've- I've never prepared for any of this. Do you know he's been training for this his entire life? Studied diplomacy, and geography, and- I learned to play the harp, Maka," Soul says then, very seriously. "I can play the harp."
That daylight in her is soft. He could melt, sitting there, watching her drop to sit beside him. The moment her elbow brushes his is monumental and terrifying. "Your music is beautiful, though."
It's not. "It doesn't matter." It does, a little, but only to the delicate, squishy part of him, barf. "I don't exactly have a king's skillset. I don't think I could do it alone. I don't want to do it alone. It's never been my duty."
She shrugs, then. Soul stares at her hands, pressed into her lap. He can barely make out the freckles stippled along her knees in the light of the fire, each darling little constellation chiseling deeper into his chest. "... I can't imagine they'd just throw you into something like that without some preparation, though. You could learn."
"But it's not my duty." Not the duty he's ever wanted.
Can't she see? There's a hole in his chest, and her sword's the culprit - her sword, and her damn hands, and the way she looks at him, as if there's moonlight written in his bones and he's the night to her day. Two sides to the same coin. He already has a duty, has a fate - and he swallows down that cowardly urge again, the one that screams to run away and hide, burrow back into his bedroll and face her in the morning, when her skin doesn't make him want to throw up and cry and kiss her.
(Goodness, does he want to kiss her.)
She shakes her head. "It's not a duty. It's a blood right. Don't think of it that way. You get to nurture and lead all of these people. People that love you."
"They don't even know me, Maka. They can't love me."
"They trust you," she says, as if it's that simple. "I trust you."
She trusts him, but somewhere along the line, they've been tied together, and that's just her biased feelings talking. It does very little to quell his nerves; Soul clenches his fist in his lap and heaves a heavy, anxious sigh. "You know me."
"And they don't?"
"I… haven't exactly been in the public eye much," Soul admits, shrugging.
It's not that he's ever even particularly wanted to be there, either, so there's no use crying over spilled milk; Wes had always been the posterchild of good health and heart, the golden boy, the king-to-be - and Soul had worn the title of second-born backup with great ease, actually. Had quite enjoyed the lack of responsibility, if only because his anxiety had poked at his flaws even from a very young age. How can he rule, if he has a hard time with public speaking?
Maka leans forward, then, hair falling in a golden braid over her shoulder. "You have a good head on your shoulders. You think of others before yourself, always. And you're rational. I think those are all good qualities of a ruler."
He could laugh. "I think of myself all the time." Because he's selfish, really, and the only exception to the rule is - well, he's staring at her. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one I think about."
Her lips press together and she shakes her head. "That's not true."
"Maka."
"Really," she says, and she watches him bristle beneath the weight of her stare. He feels like he's under a microscope, the way she's watching him in that uncanny, unblinking way of hers. Perceptive Maka never misses a thing. Couldn't, not if she feels the same strange, unnerving tether to him that he does to her. "I think you'll do fine. I'd swear on it."
"Maka-"
"- You're so wise, and you don't throw yourself into the heat of the battle without a plan, and you-"
"- Help me?"
She stops, then. Soul rewinds for a hot second, realizes what he'd blurted out, and burns bright, despite the cool of the night. Well. Can't blame the sun on his clammy hands now, can he? "... Uh."
But it's too late. The cogs are already turning and she's already to reacting. "How?"
Urgh. She'd gotten it, but missed the bigger point. Or maybe he hadn't been clear enough; Soul scrubs his face and hopes he's not as pink as he feels. Maka's always too eager to help, too eager to throw herself into the line of fire if it means making it easier on a friend, and - urgh, just once, he wishes she'd think of herself, too. Think of her own feelings and not just instinctually, willingly shoulder somebody else's woes, like a damn emotional packmule.
But he'd said it, hadn't he? Blurted it out, despite it all. Burning bright, he squirms. "... No, ugh."
"But you asked," she says, and fuck, there's no worming out of this. Shoot. "How can I help?"
Stop looking at him like that, maybe. It makes him want to do things he shouldn't, like reach out and slip the glove from her hand, kiss her calloused knuckles. Disgusting. He's pathetic, and her hard, even stare shouldn't disarm him so easily.
Admit it, he thinks. Spit it out, coward.
She still doesn't budge. "How can I help?"
Stick with him. Be with him, no matter the how. How is he supposed to ask for her companionship without stuttering like a fool? He is cool. He is calm. He may have never attended classes for political science or foreign relations, but he'd still mastered the art of the royal demeanor years ago. Stone walls, never let it reach his eyes.
Except with her, apparently. He's a damn open book.
"Stay with me," he admits, finally, more hushed than he'd intended. That stare of hers softens, and it does something funny to his stomach. "I just- I don't think I could ever do it alone, not without Wes, and you're-" he blinks at her, helplessly, for a moment, grasping for reason.
"I'm what?"
The closest thing he has to a friend. He swallows thickly. "... Important. To me."
A bigger confession than he'd intended, but it seems to placate her. Maybe even moves her, if the way her lips part and eyes light up are any indication. She nudges him, seated beside him, so close that he can feel the heat of her skin through his loose sleep pants; her ankles are pale and glow in the yellowed light of the fire, white skin that's never seen the light of day, and he almost wants to fall to his knees, for a moment, and he's the royal one, here. The twisting in his gut tightens, then, nearly spirals out of control, as she smiles, soft and sweet. No pretense, no bravado. Just girl, feelings bared.
Yeah, his hands are definitely sweaty. He tries rubbing them on his knees to keep himself busy and not get lost in her eyes or some other gross mushy urge that's bubbling into his bloodstream. Ugh.
"... Of course, your Highness," Maka says, just as gently as he'd begun. "I didn't know if you'd want me there, but- of course I'd stay with you."
"It's just," he starts, still rubbing his hands on his pants like a preteen. "It's a lot to deal with, I think. And I don't want to do it alone, but I can't- without Wes, I don't… know how to do any of that. He was always the brave one, the charismatic one. I wouldn't know what to do, if I was doing it alone." He shakes his head. "But it's like… things are easier, with you. I can't explain it. It's like-"
"Like we know each other?"
Soul finds himself nodding. His inside out, really. Her strengths fill out his weaknesses, and his hers, maybe.
"I feel it too." And there's a hand on her chest, over her heart. The soft cotton of her shirt moves beneath the weight of her hand, so oversized and large on her form that it drags the fabric down just far enough to allow the peak of a collarbone to peer over her collar. He is a gentleman and does not stare. "I just- I wasn't sure if you wanted me there with you."
"Why wouldn't I?" His hands cup over his knees, bunch up the fabric of his pants between his clammy fingers. "Maka, I nearly died for you. I want you around."
It doesn't make her blush. Only makes her eyes a little mistier, the green of her eyes a little deeper. "That was obligation."
"It wasn't." It had never been. He's not obligated to die for anyone. That's Wes's duty, never his. He's second born, after all. Never destined to rule the kingdom, never destined to give up his entire life for anyone. It had been the only choice he's ever made that couldn't be twisted into selfishness, and they both know it.
Her lips purse. "Asura was there, and Ragnarok, too, so I always just thought-" A shrug, and then, "It was what you had to do. You know. For the greater good."
To hell with the greater good. In that moment, he'd known his own motivations, and it hadn't been to guard the hero, protect the one with the courage to defeat the Kishin. No, in that heated, blustering moment, he'd been driven by nothing more than sheer adrenaline, absolute instinct, and a thundering heart - no matter what, Maka had to come through. No matter what, his friend had to live. To hell with him, to hell if it was right or not.
Soul feels the burn spread further. Even his neck feels warm, and that's certainly not facing the fire.
There's not a proper way to tell her it'd been all for her safety. He doesn't think she wants to hear it, anyway. To Maka, a show of courage meant more than a lovelorn boy throwing everything away for a girl with pretty eyes and warm hands.
So he says, "I wanted to protect you," instead. A half truth. Enough of the truth, really.
And she nods. "And that's why you'd make a fine king."
She doesn't get it. Perhaps she never will. Soul shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair instead of digging deeper. What she doesn't know can't hurt her, he supposes. Let her continue to think that he's some sort of damn martyr, if it helps her sleep at night, if it allows her to have faith. Who is he to break that, when she's the first person who's ever looked up to him like this?
He's a coward. "I won't, but okay."
It seems as though she's tired of talking in circles. Maka stands up and grabs for the bucket of water, puts the fire out, and lingers there, simmering coals behind her, smoke coiling around her bare ankles. "It doesn't matter. I'll be here, every step of the way. No matter what."
.
No matter what.
He supposes this makes them partners. Or something like it, anyway. It sort of rings a nice bell, and Soul finds himself smiling to his own thoughts, even as Maka leads him through the woods, even as he walks right into a branch and nearly pokes an eye out.
"Careful!" she gasps, shoving the foliage out of the way. He stumbles after her, caught happily in her web, as she grabs his wrist and tugs him along. He's all lanky, clumsy limbs, apparently, not at all the graceful gazelle he'd like to be. "You need to watch where you're going, you know! I can't protect you from everything."
It's the tiniest thing to be happy about, but every time she initiates physical contact little sparks shoot through his spine. It's pathetic, really, and definitely a lot schoolboyish, but he can't help it. At the beginning of this journey, she'd been too removed to entertain the thought of touching him, even if it meant helping him out; between that, and the proper titles she'd been slinging his way, he'd been disheartened. It didn't feel right, having a barrier between them, not while he'd already nearly bled out in her arms once. They'd been close, and then she'd been so caught up in what was appropriate. As if he's ever given a damn about that.
But it's been better. A little bit, at least. Her hand is warm. The fabric of her clothes brushes the delicate, thin skin of his wrist and he goes a little jelly-kneed.
"Guess you'll just have to save me from myself," he jokes, and she shoots him a look over her shoulder. "My knight in shining armor."
She laughs at that. "Armor would slow me down!"
"You have a death wish, you know that, right?"
She shrugs, but she doesn't drop his wrist, and it's the greatest thing. He doesn't mention it and neither does she. "I'm too fast for them to catch."
"You're really not."
"Maybe you can play the bad guys a pretty song on your harp and put them to sleep for me."
"Very funny."
.
It's hard to search for someone when they don't even know where to start.
There'd been no leads. One day, Wes had gone out for his daily walk, around the perimeter of the gardens, probably to pluck some petals and do some reading, whatever it was he did on his few moments to himself, and then - he hadn't returned. Hadn't shown up to any of his classes, any meetings, hadn't reported back to their parents at supper time. When he still didn't show back up well into the night, their father had sent out a search party. When days turned to weeks, the kingdom was in an uproar amidst reconstruction and their prince was still nowhere to be found.
A sudden disappearance really isn't enough to go off of.
"He couldn't have left a note or something, could he?" Soul whines, dropping to sit on a particularly large stone. Drops his ass right then and there and pouts. "No, that would be too easy!"
"You front in such funny ways," Maka says, dropping her bag. "I guess we can take a lunch break. I'll go hunting for food."
He is doing no such thing, thank you very much. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You miss him," she says, raising a brow. Drops to kneel by her pack and rummage through for her hunting supplies, all the while giving him a look that calls him out almost completely. "You're compensating by complaining. I've spent enough time around you to know how you work now, you know."
"No. You don't."
"Do too," she says, grinning. "You get quiet when you're stressed out, and you grind your jaw when you're frustrated - you're doing it right now!"
He goes stiff as a board. No. "I just want some sort of sign," he hisses, through gritted teeth. "He could be literally anywhere, and we don't exactly have all of the time in the world."
There's a softness in her eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. "Your parents will start to get worried about you, too, if we don't get you back soon."
Hardly. Soul doubts they'd extend the same level of concern if their second born son had up and disappeared, but it's another conversation for another day, and he doesn't care to sully their good mood with his dirty laundry. Insecurities will always run deep, he supposes, no matter what, and Soul scrubs at his hair instead and looks to the sky.
Except they're in the forest, so really he's just looking aimlessly to the treeline, watching birds fly by, watching branches rustle with the bustle of squirrels and the like. "How does the prince of Hyrule go missing? How can nobody have any idea where he is? It doesn't make sense."
"What do you mean?"
"He's kind of a loud guy!" Soul says, scratching his neck. Drops his gaze to look at her again, as she's readying her bow, fiddling with her pouch of arrows on her hip. "Beyond that, he has guards, you know? An entire entourage just… didn't even notice him vanish. It's not like he's nobody. He's Wes. He has a huge presence. He doesn't just disappear. Someone had to have seen or heard something, right?"
She nods, absently. "Yeah?"
"But nobody did. Apparently." Soul huffs and slouches, then. "It's stupid. And frustrating. What're we supposed to do? Ask nicely, and maybe he'll appear?"
Maka doesn't even have the chance to reply before his ass starts burning. Soul yelps (yelps, does not screech, thank you very much) and leaps from his seat, patting his bottom. It startles Maka enough to fumble and drop both the arrow she'd been holding and her bow - and ignites her bone-deep instincts enough to inspire her to grab her sword and shove him behind her. "What-?!"
"OW, what the ffff-!"
The stone he'd been sitting on is glowing.
"... Whaaaaat."
"Are, um. Rocks supposed to do that?" Maka asks, after a beat. From over her shoulder, Soul peers ahead suspiciously.
"No, I don't… hm." He squints. "... What're those markings?"
She stops him before he has the chance to inspect more closely. "Hey, no. I'm supposed to protect you, remember? Stay behind me."
"A little jolt isn't going to kill me, Maka," he says, politely pushing past her. The markings - they're definitely Sheikah markings, which is. Hm. Curious. What's a rock engraved with Sheikah markings doing in the middle of the woods? It's glowing, and the rivets in which it's been engraved glow a blue-green, and yeah, he'd recognize that eye anywhere.
Strange.
"... It's trying to say something," Soul says, then.
"What? It's a rock, Soul."
He looks at her. She stares back, blinking, then realizes her mistake. "Prince Soul! I mean-"
It's not even in him right now to be elated over her bumble. It's uncanny, the way he recognizes this stone. No rock before has ever felt so damn familiar to him - no inanimate object has ever spoken to his soul in such a way before, been so compelling. It glows brighter, Soul's ass still kind of burns, and something inside of him clicks.
This is it. The universe is messing with him. Ask for a sign and he may receive, in the most bizarre way possible.
"You still have those freaky masks with you?"
She's still standing there brandishing her sword. "... Yes?"
"Give it here. You said you had the Mask of Truth, right?"
"I-" she's speechless, and her sword hand lowers only now that she's really, truly confused. He's lost her. "Yes? But I told you, it doesn't even do anything! I'm pretty sure it's just a fluke-"
"It's got the same design, see?" Soul drags a finger along the glowing blue light of the eye, the teardrop. "Sheikah. Like that mask. It's gotta mean something, right?"
"It burned your butt!"
He turns around and rummages through her bag anyway, despite her squawking. Whatever. He's got a feeling, alright; call it intuition, or the sway of magic speaking to him, or whatever - his royal blood allows him to sense things a bit more deeply than she might, he thinks, and maybe he's a bit pissed off at a damn stone for possibly leaving his ass all rosy, but whatever. Whatever. There's gotta be a point to all of this, and they have literally nothing else to go off of, so Soul finally yanks the eye-emblazoned mask out of her bag, stands up and props it on her face.
"Ee- Nooo, why me?" She whines and begrudgingly sheathes her sword. It jostles at her hip, momentarily stationed away, now that the only real danger here is the smell of creepy mask. "It smells funny in here. Can't we rinse it first?"
"Shhh. Ask questions."
"Why are you so weird."
The world is messing with him. The stone glows and then, in his arms, Maka wilts.
He thinks not of how he's definitely got his arms around her and how she had complained but has made no further attempt at struggling away from him. Or the way she sort of… melts into him, the back of her head pressed to his shoulder, as he's got one hand still pressed to the front of the mask, holding it to her face. Tries very hard not to be pleased with the way she feels against him, or how this is the closest they've ever been - there are more important matters at hand than basking in the way she feels in his arms, tiny and firm, all wiry muscle.
"... It says you've always been a twerp." Her voice is sort of muted, caught behind the closed lips of the mask. It echoes back and sounds sort of like she's muffled into a pillow. "Wh-"
Surely she can hear the rushing of his heartbeat. Her ear's right by his heart, after all. Pressed tightly, right where she belongs. "I can't hear it. Whatever's going on, only you can, because of that mask-"
"Who are you?" she asks, then.
It's probably best if she does the talking. He'll just stand here like a tool and be moral support. Press his empty hand to the crook of her elbow, bare, thin skin. She's warm, here. His thumb brushes there for a moment and she flusters in his arms.
"How did you get here? Who did this to you?"
He traces down her skin. Stares down at her and follows the line of her veins, dark blue against the golden tan of her arms. Watches her fingers twitch, then grasp for his. She holds tight and he blushes like a damn fool.
"... You don't know?"
"Don't know what?" he breathes, right in her ear. She flutters again in his arms. "Maka, what's going on?"
Her hand's over his in seconds, and then she's pushing the mask up and blinking at him with misty eyes. "It's him. It's Wes."
.
The world is not only messing with him, but it's cruel.
"He says a witch transformed him into the stone," Maka says, sitting cross-legged next to Wes, apparently. She looks uncharacteristically tiny, sitting there; the stone is large enough, he supposes, and goes to about his knee, but with Maka sitting there it looks larger, somehow. Or maybe she's just smaller than he expects. "I guess she just dropped him here and then ditched."
"But then how did nobody see her?" Soul shakes his head. "How do you sneak into the castle, turn the prince into a giant rock and then haul him away without anyone realizing he's gone? It's not possible."
She shrugs. Beside her, the stone - Wes, he thinks, that's Wes, no wonder why it'd felt so familiar - glows. It's almost melancholic, really. Rather sort of sad. And he'd been standing there, holding Maka's hand, right in front of him. Soul doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Quite the opposite of a meet-cute; Soul'd introduced his brother to the girl he kinda-sorta-really has a giant crush on without even realizing it.
"Witchcraft," she says, leaning her head against the stone. Wes does not bake her the way he'd cooked Soul's rump roast. Pompous ass. "There are still things about it we'll never understand, I guess. Takes a witch to understand a witch, right? All he knows is one moment he was reading, and the next he was a gossip stone, and some lady with a braid was ditching him here and hissing and-"
"Hissing?" Soul asks, brow raised.
Maka presses her cheek to the cool surface of Wes's stoney side. "I'm just the messenger."
Such defeat, on her face. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Soul plucks a flower, nestled by his foot and offers it out to her. "What's with the long face?"
"I was supposed to help you find Wes."
Ah. Damn hero complex, coming on strong. The anxiousness curling beneath his skin has nothing to do with the job she's done, and she should probably know it; salvation had never been in the form of his pigtailed partner, never. "We found him," Soul says, and hates the way his voice breaks. Hates the way it makes the light in her eyes dim, too. "Maka. It's not your fault."
"I wish we could do more!" she blurts. "It's not fair! It's- it's disgusting, dehumanizing, what happened-"
And not her burden to bare. Not her duty. Him, on the other hand…
He scoots forward on his knees and drops the flower on her lap. It's nothing more than a weed, really, but still pretty in its own right - simple, with tiny yellow petals, no-nonsense. Cute. Not unlike her, he thinks, smiling despite the sweat on his brow. Tenacious and pretty. No extra trinkets or frills to doll her up.
"It's fine."
"It's not! That's- this is your brother, Soul," Maka says, very seriously. Sits up and slaps the palm of her hand along the front of the engraved eye. "It's messed up!"
He knows that. His stomach's about to fall out of his butt, but, "You're not the one who did this to him, though. I asked you to help me find him and you did."
She's still misty eyed, though. Still so angry on his behalf. Angry enough to cry, even; those are furious, righteous tears burning in the corner of her eyes. Damp, darker lashes only bring out the green in her eyes, only highlight the spread of her freckles. She stares at him, then, long and hard, Wes's glow haloing around the splay of her fingers, and says, "We'll turn him back," decisively.
And he knows, without a doubt, she means it. Hero complex, to a fault.
So he says, "Okay."
"I'll do whatever it takes to help you. Every step of the way, I'm there."
It's the worst time for his heart to race. It's bad enough he already sort of wants to barf, but this- he can't handle a surge of affection, not now, not while he's already in the process of overthinking what this new development means for him and his future. "Maka-" His voice cracks.
She plucks the flower out of her lap and reaches over, slides it behind his ear. Nods, all steel, all courage. "I'll make sure of it."
Wes's eye is watching him, and he can't help it, it's like he can hear him goading him on. Soul doesn't need any mask to understand what his overzealous big brother is trying to say. The all-seeing damn eye. "And even if we never find a way to turn him back?"
"We will," Maka insists.
Beside the point. "But even if we don't," he says, and shakes his head as she tries to pipe up again, in that headstrong, stubborn way of hers. "You'll still stay with me?"
The glow simmers to a hum, a simple blue reminder. Maka's hand slides down the stone, tangles her fingers in the grass instead.
"I…" She opens her mouth to say something, then shuts her lips and pauses, thinking. Organizes her thoughts. "... What're you asking?"
Goddess. "Like…" He wants to run his fingers through his hair, but it'll mess with the flower she'd crowned him with, and it's the sweetest balm to his rushing pulse. He wouldn't dare mess with her gift. Would much rather just pout at her and secretly bask in all of the gross, soul-fluttering feelings he'd felt as she'd brushed her cheek on the way back. "... Like Black*Star and Kid?"
She blinks, then. "Huh?"
"They're guarding the doors to the Triforce. Together." Because it's lonely, doing things solo, and he's so tired of loneliness. Because his brother is a fucking glowing gossip stone and he needs his partner.
A breeze brushes by. Strands of her hair are caught on the dampness of her lips. Fuck, it's distracting. "... You want me by your side?"
"If… if you'd want to."
He cannot look at the stone. Wes doesn't need a face to smirk at him. The burning down the back of his neck is bad enough without looking to his brother for further exposure.
It's not like that, he wants to say. It's not like that, he just doesn't think he'll be able to bear it alone, okay.
Coward.
Maka smiles, delightfully pink. "Yeah. Okay. I'm with you, however you want me. You know that."
.
She's shoving her map back into her bag when she asks, "So, should I call you King Soul, now?"
"Only if I get to call you Queen, too."
It's meant to be cheeky, like a joke. At least, he thinks it is. If she takes it that way, he won't be heartbroken. He'll roll with it.
Her bag swings over her shoulder. She's bright, in the afternoon light, a great beacon of green hope. Soul can't imagine her in one of his mother's gowns, much in the same way he can't imagine himself in his father's crown. It would be too much like a costume, he thinks. Hell, he can't imagine himself in any sort of crown, can't imagine himself seated atop any sort of throne, relaying orders and the like. Feels too much like he'd be walking in someone else's shoes.
Maka shrugs. Cups her hand over her eyes and stares over the horizon, never meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't make a very good queen. I don't think they'd like my boots very much in the throne room."
"There are ways to clean them," he says, a breath away from a laugh. A wheeze away from a sigh. Well, he said he wouldn't be disappointed. "You wouldn't tread dirt everywhere."
Her hand drops. Knuckles brush right by his, and he promises himself he won't look too deeply into it, won't overthink it. Just let it happen, Evans. The leather of her gloves is well worn, and Soul contemplates emptying his stomach into the grass beside him one last time before swallowing down his nerves for sure and reaches for her hand.
Such a grip, for a tiny thing. Ah, well. He knows the truth; she's small but mighty, carries the weight of the kingdom on her shoulders, even without noble blood running through her veins. She's the responsible one, he thinks. Someone trustworthy.
"Are you still scared?"
She won't look at him. He squeezes her hand. "Yes."
"That's okay," she says, and then her thumb is brushing over hers and she's smiling at him, soft and simple. "Beside every great King is a Queen, right?"
He stutters, lost. And, ah, she's pink, too. Maybe she'd been trying to play it cool to keep him from noticing her own blush.
"I…" Swallow. Speak words. He knows many, come on. "Thought you didn't want to be Queen."
"Hmm," she hums, but her grip is tighter than anything else, and he's much too pleased to be caught in her vice. "I didn't say that."
"You-!"
Squish.
Soul screams and lunges to the ground. It's the consistency, honestly- what in the Goddess's names is a damn Chuchu doing here, of all places? It oozes closer to him, and Soul shakes his leg, full-body shuddering- he'd stepped in it, so caught up in Maka's eyes that he hadn't even noticed, gross, gross-!
It's nothing her sword can't handle. Squish. Scream, cry, whine. Bye bye, jelly monster.
Maka stands over him, sweat on her brow, laugh caught in between her lips, and has the grace to offer a hand to him. Worn leather, sword glistening in the afternoon sunlight.
"Your Highness," she practically purrs, and dammit all, he blushes as she yanks him to his feet and laughs, right in his face.
Ah, well. The price he pays for partnership. He wins some, he loses some; once he's got her fingers between his, again, it's hardly a price at all. She's cute, with her head thrown back, cap fluttering to the ground, laughing full-heartedly, and yeah. Maybe things will be alright.