"So."
Maka can practically taste the awkward and she hasn't even kissed him yet.
Seven minutes in heaven is never a good idea.
She rubs her sweaty palms on her skirt and tries to will away her nerves. Maka counts to ten in her head and focuses on breathing, the patchwork quilt pinned beneath her knees, anything but the boy seated across from her, muttering and swearing under his breath. Things like "Why did I even come?", and "Stupid fucking Black Star" and, Maka's personal favorite, "Jesus hot sauce Christmas cake," fall nearly undetected beneath the romantic and sensual sound of My Humps. Kim Diehl's playlist could use some work, Maka thinks drearily, because kissing the cute boy in her English class while listening to lyrics about some other girl's junk isn't exactly enticing. No matter how cute the boy.
And he's very cute, even if he doesn't want to be here. Her fragile thirteen year old heart flutters in her chest excitedly; the terms may not be ideal, but she does want to kiss him, and her face burns further at the thought of finding out what his lips feel like. What any pair of lips feel like against hers.
It's shedding her childhood and becoming an adult, and she's been ready to ditch the kid gloves and move on to bigger and better things for months.
"... The music is loud," she mumbles, tugging at the hem of her skirt.
"It's shit," he grumbles. "Fuck."
She winces. He's started swearing a lot more lately, much like the other boys in her class, and she suspects it's because he thinks it's cool to drop f-bombs. Maka thinks it's crude and immature, personally, but she does nothing more than crinkle her brow and stare at his knees.
With a shrug, she attempts to continue the conversation. "It's better than Stacy's Mom. Poor Jackie had to settle with swapping spit with Black Star to that song."
"And Sexy Back," he shakes his head. "This playlist is terrible. Kim needs better taste."
Maka giggles nervously. It might've been the punch she sipped earlier, though. She can't really tell. "You're such a snob."
"Am not," he huffs. She finally works up the nerve to look him in the face. He's nearly as red as his eyes, just as jittery as she, and not at all the cool guy persona he likes to portray when he's kicking his feet up on his desk and telling her father to stuff it. It's a little endearing and a lot nerve wracking, because she thought she was ready a few moments ago but now she's not sure, not now that he's drumming his fingers on his thigh and taking shallow breaths.
They exchange a look. There's an excited pulsing in her blood and she really hopes it's not barf she feels bubbling in her throat.
"So," she tries again. Soul fidgets. "... Five minutes in heaven-"
"Yeah, about that," he cuts her off. His voice is strained, cracking, and only half of it is due to puberty. "Can't we just… tell people we kissed?"
Rejection stings. She will not cry, she refuses to cry in front of him. Maybe later, buried in her pillows and holding her new puppy close to her heart.
"Oh," she blurts.
Soul burns and slouches into himself. If his posture was any worse, he wouldn't have a neck - he would just be a ball, a blob of a boy and messy white hair. His awkward growth spurt has left him gangly and lanky and genuinely uncomfortable, she can tell, and this situation just throws off his groove all the more. It's abundantly clear that Soul Evans' tongue will not be in her mouth anytime soon. The revelation is disappointing as it is relieving (tongue kissing sounds weird but apparently it is good, according to Liz, and Maka is nothing if not curious).
She hopes it's his nerves that keeps him from scooting closer and not him not wanting to kiss her.
The look he gives her is pleading. Desperate. Self-conscious. A billion other nouns that make up this confusing, frustrating enigma of a boy who she doesn't want to lie about.
"... Yeah, sure," she amends. "No problem."
He gives her a slow, nervous smile and bumps his knee against hers. Butterflies shoot through her like wildfire and she gulps. Crushes will be the death of her if this is how they always play out.
"Thanks, Maka," he mutters. His voice doesn't break, barely a whisper, almost incomprehensible underneath some other shitty middle school houseparty jam. "I owe you."
She kind of wants to choke. Definitely cry, but not because he won't kiss her - because he doesn't want to. It's like a slap to the face. The worst wake up call.
Numbly, she forces a brave, gentle smile and holds up a pinky to him. Soul stares at her for a long moment, searching, calculating, and Maka wants to curse beneath her breath but doesn't. She wonders if following his lead and dropping a few f-bombs will relieve the strain in her chest, the chill in her stomach.
She feels silly for picking out her outfit so meticulously. For texting Liz for hours pre-party, asking which skirt looked best with which top and which outfit made her look the least like an elementary student playing dress up. For wearing strawberry-scented lip gloss in hopes that the bottle would land on Soul when she spinned it.
For thinking her crush went both ways. Was she really that bad at reading the signs?
Maka bites her lip. From outside the door, Don't Cha pulsates and blares. Kim shrieks and Harvar's bored tone drowns out the sound of Ox whining.
"No problem," she lies. Maka wills her shoulders not to quiver.
They lock pinkies and shake on it. His hands are just as clammy as hers.
"So," he clears his throat. Maka sits taller. "Do you think Tsubaki and Liz made out where we're sitting."
Maka crinkles her nose. It's gross to talk about her two best friends playing tonsil tennis, but it lightens the mood immensely and she's thankful for that. "Definitely. I'd know Tsubaki's perfume from a mile away. Liz was practically bathed in it."
"Black*Star's gonna cry."
"Give him a few more drinks. It's only a matter of time."