For SoMa Week 2019: Day 6 - hands
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If there is one thing that Maka has to say is the most distinct about Soul, it isn't his striking white hair, his bright eyes or even the sound of his voice. His ability to turn into a scythe isn't exactly novel, and his motorcycle, as much as he hates to admit it, isn't a defining feature of him. Maka can't even say that his characteristic slouch is what she finds the most noticeable about him.
The first thing is touch. It's always been touch, somehow. From the moment Maka shakes his hand in that tiny piano room, she knows that he is going to be someone she is ready to cherish. At the time, she'd been determined to work with him. His grip was strong, challenging, and she liked nothing more than a challenge. Her gloves had been more symbolic than useful in battle, but as they grew older, they served as a hindrance. It became better, nicer, to be able to hold her weapon firmly, to swing him with heightened control and precision.
It wasn't a matter of control now, though. Now, it was a matter of comfort, of recognition and familiarity. It was small and subtle, sometimes in the brush of his fingers against her wrist or his gentle nudge as he prompts her to get ready for dinner. These days, she's grown accustomed to the feeling of his hands. His nails aren't long, and he keeps them surprisingly well-kept, if only to ensure they don't get in his way when he plays piano or guitar. He's got calluses on the tips of his fingers from vigorous musical training on the family dime. His fingers are just long enough to come up over hers when they press their palms together, his phalanges curving over her a bit. His palm is warm, a reassuring weight in her hand when they hold each other. It's a promise that he's by her side, as steady and strong as ever.
His hands protect her, play for her, claim her, tie the pair of them together and make her never want to let go. His hands are near sacred to her, special. He's the only person she feels comfortable touching her. She's normally pretty careful with whom comes in contact with her (with the exception of her fists), but Soul is someone's whose hands have never done her wrong. He's never hurt her on purpose. His hands on her skin only seek to make her happy, to please, to aid, to support, to love. He's gentle, careful, affectionate in those touches.
She knows him before he even speaks. His hand on her shoulder, at her elbow, on her waist – she can tell who it is before she sees him. She doesn't even need her soul perception to know that it is Soul. He's familiar in a way nobody else has ever been, and it's a relief she never knew she needed.
And tonight, when he comes home, tapping her shoulder so she'll turn, he'll cradle her face with his hands as delicate as if he was holding her own soul. He'll thumb at her cheekbones, marvelling at her face like it's his favourite song, and lean in to kiss her, the words "I miss you" not needing to be said because she can feel it.
All because of those hands.