Besitos (plural noun, Spanish): little kisses
Maka's fever colors her cheeks a darling shade of pink, puts her out of commission, and makes it impossible for Soul to keep his undying crush under the radar.
He's devastatingly weak for the pig-tail wearing girl who collects brochures of all the museums they've visited and laces her fingers between his when anxiety consumes his mind. Comfort is when she climbs into his bed after gently poking him awake to ask for permission first. Spartoi's month-long vacation touring South America has flared up a bad case of homesickness, but with Maka's arm swathed over his side as he dozes off at night, warm breath on his neck, it's not too different from being in Death City.
The second day they're in Argentina, however, the tables turn and he's the one taking on the role of caregiver.
"I'm dying," she sniffles in a nasally rasp, arm outstretched toward the tissue box. "There's no hope for me."
He scoots it closer to her. "You have a cold, Maka. You're gonna be okay."
She's inconsolable. "Call the priest! Death is waiting for me."
"Don't think so… Kid's here with us on this trip, remember? He and the rest of the team went to the beach without us because they don't wanna get sick, too."
She sighs, slouching into the pillows. "I can't believe they ditched me. US. You shouldn't have stayed here."
Shrugging can't possibly convey the giddiness that bubbles in his belly at finally being alone with her. He's never been high a day in his life but he's sure this feeling of elation is the equivalent - the goofy, slack-jawed smile on his face reveals way too much. "I didn't wanna leave you," he says.
"I know, but you don't have to stay here beside my death bed," she protests, frowning.
"Not even death can split us apart," he says quickly, and he's blushing before the words are completely out of his mouth. Her lips curve into a little 'o' of surprise, neat brows raised high. "Because we're partners, you know? I'm always here for you."
She glows, reaching for his hand and then jerking back. Reason tells him it's because she doesn't want to infect him with whatever she has, but it's still like taking a punch to the kidney. "Thanks, Soul. I know you're always here for me."
Is it a little bit selfish of him to be glad that she's confined to bed rest thanks to a paranoid, over-protective Tsubaki? The few precious moments he's had alone with his meister during this vacation have all been thanks to his persuasive murmurs by her ear ("Let's haul ass before they notice"). Sneaking away from the group charges his blood with excitement, and finding a quiet spot in the park to sit and talk and watch the microexpressions of her face as she teaches him a few new Spanish words she learned is priceless.
All he wants is his Maka time.
And now that she's quarantined to the hotel room, his dreams have come true.
Except the snotty, congested part. But he can ignore it (as long as she doesn't blow her nose too loudly). Solving sudoku puzzles and watching subtitled movies soothes his introverted soul, though he complains to Maka that she's "a boring nerd" to maintain his cool image as he snuggles under the duvet covers.
Before long, he's staring at her eyelashes as she sleeps, snoring lightly. He pinches her nose in an attempt to wake her up when he needs attention, but she swats him away, and he finds contentment in using her as a pillow. Despite all the lean muscle mass she's gained from hitting the weight room with Kilik religiously, she's bonier than she looks, but that only reminds Soul of when they were thirteen and getting to know each other's quirks.
Nostalgia lulls him to sleep.
However, his rest break is fleeting.
Four hours later, restlessness drives Maka into hatching an escape plot. He should have known peace and calm couldn't last too long.
"Maka," he begins warningly, looking out through one eyelid at her swinging a leg over the edge of the bed. Figures that the pleasant dream about napping on the couch back home flees as soon as she stirs.
"What? There isn't much else to do," she defends, crossing her arms in a way that reminds him a four year old who's been told 'no.' "I'm not sick anymore."
"Pfft, whatever."
"Really," she assures, winking.
Yep, he's downright head over heels for this stubborn rule breaker. He steels himself against any expression she may pull - puppy eyes aren't equipped often in her arsenal of weapons to use against him, but it happened once, and he relented embarrassingly quickly.
In one swift movement, he throws the covers over her, telling her to rest. The idea of pulling her leg back onto the mattress flits briefly through his head, but that would require coming into contact with smooth skin, and he's not sure he can touch her leg without kneeling down to worship it.
"Don't give me orders," she chides, sticking an arm out.
He opens his other eyelid. "Put that back."
Pouting, she does the exact opposite. Another arm pokes out like a flower sprouting from the ground. His heart does somersaults, expecting a fight and admiring her strong willpower.
They stare at each other, neither wanting to blink first. It would be a sign of weakness. Maka takes advantage of the opportunity by kicking the covers off herself, a small smirk playing on her lips.
Expecting this, he responds by tossing his side of the blankets over her, succeeding in covering her head so he can blink because, however much he appreciates any excuse to stare at her, his eyes are stinging from keeping them open. She growls, punching her way free, and he sets his jaw, ready to hand out many scoldings.
Blonde hair sticks out every which way when she emerges, pouting, complaining, "I'm bored!"
"You're sick and need rest!"
"I'm fine, see?" She confiscates his hand and holds it to her forehead. He burns for multiple reasons, one of them being his nerve endings melting at her touch.
"You have a fever," he cries, worry swelling and crowding the other emotions storming in his chest. He's the worst Makasitter. Tsubaki is bound to lose her marbles and kick his ass if she comes back to the hotel and finds Maka either a) gone, or b) worse off than when the group left.
Or c) runaway. If they get a phone call from the local hospital informing them that they captured a walking petri dish off the streets, he won't be allowed to Maka Sit anymore.
"I'm just hot from staying inside - no, don't get the thermometer!"
She seals her mouth shut, rolling her lips between her teeth. Soul has never agreed with using excessive force to strong arm anyone into bending to his will, but this is a special case. Maka Albarn can be as foolish as her papa when she has a goal, so lassoing her wrists together in one hand doesn't make him feel as bad as it should. Neither does wiggling his fingers at her armpits, drawing out fits of begrudging laughter.
"Maka, just please let me take your temperature. I need to know it so I can give you the right medicine."
"I wish Stein was here, he's a better doctor than you," she grumbles quickly, screaming when he plunges the thermometer in her mouth. Rolling her eyes, she goes limp and waits for the device's beep that signals the end of her humiliation.
Soul stares at the digital screen when she flings his arm away. He goes cold. "One-hundred-four? You're - okay, get up, I'm taking you to the emergency room."
Snatching it away from him, she sighs, chunking it at his face. "Look at it closer, Soul. It says one-hundred point four. That's barely a fever!"
Coughing to cover up the scarlet blush conquering his cheeks, he grouses, "Well, it could get that bad if you don't rest!"
But she's already standing up, throwing her arms above her head and arching her back, yawning. "Want to go with me to the beach? I'll get you a snowcone."
The Romantic in him squeals. That's definitely a daydream he's entertained, just him and Maka strolling alongside slow waves, joined at the hands. None of his reveries included a box of tissues, though, so he'll pass up the chance.
"Get back in bed, dummy," he says, fluffing her pillows.
She laughs, grin dazzling. "It's not like I'm dying, Soul. Get a grip."
He stares. "A few hours ago you told me what kind of flowers you wanted for your funeral."
Waving him away, she turns on her heel to dig in her suitcase. "I feel okay now, though. I just wanted attention, ha… and a good walk would even help me get better faster."
If she fishes out her bikini, the one she wore for the beach party Black*Star insisted they crash, the polka-dotted two piece Liz had coaxed her into wearing, his nose will surely become a faucet for blood. Clearing his throat, he hops off the bed, fingers wrapping around her wrist. "If you come back to bed, we can watch those soap operas you wanted to watch."
Interested, she narrows her eyes at him, gauging how serious he is in making this promise.
"C'mon," he insists, tugging gently.
"The telenovelas?"
"Yes."
She turns her nose up. "I thought you said those were for idiots."
"I'll be an idiot for you," he says, careful not to blink too rapidly and give himself away.
Happy with this response, she falls back into the mattress, asking for full control of the remote, snacks, and a ten-minute scalp massage. These demands are not a problem - sure, she's testing his limits, patience, and breaking all of his self-imposed rules for being a badass, but if it'll make his meister feel better, he'll go above and beyond to fulfill her wishes.
It's really not that bad. The soap operas are the definition of cheesy, the premise not too hard to follow despite the lagging English closed captioned subtitles: best friends who fall in love through a series of obstacles. They're from two different backgrounds, everyone is against their friendship, and in the first episode they argue five times thanks to a jealous antagonist. None of it exactly fits him and Maka (does she even feel the same way he does?) but smelling her lavender smelling shampoo and holding her in his arms has a weird effect on him.
Envisioning them as the protagonists doesn't humiliate him - it downright kills him. Maka senses his anguish and tilts her head up to look at him quizzically, innocent eyes wide and concerned. "What's up?"
"This is just so… stupid," he mumbles, not sure if he should shred his cool guy card.
Maka pouts. She might be displeased with his lack of outward enthusiasm, but at least his secret is safe for now. "You promised."
"Right, sorry."
Nice save, he pats himself on the back.
True to her straight A, teacher's pet, perfectionist tendencies, Maka picks up the language fast, a little too fast, like she's absorbing a lecture. During the second episode, she fumbles with parts of a few words she can catch, and by the third, she's repeating whole phrases.
She forms an attachment to a particular word that keeps springing up during scenes where the best friends turned lovers lip lock, always tucked away behind bushes or .
"Be-si-tos," she pronounces lowly. The word travels through the surface of his skin, diffuses to every nerve ending in his body, and Maka, aware of his muscles tensing because of self-consciousness, eyes him again.
"Nothing," he says before she can ask.
She arches a brow. "Welp, that's believable."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," he chides, ruffling her hair. Swatting his hand away, she pulls a sour face, not fooled by his less than cunning attempt to push the conversation in another direction.
'Never give up until you get what you want' is her motto, and she lives up to it too well. "Am I saying it right?"
"How should I know? I don't speak Spanish, Maka."
"Just repeat what the actors say. Dame un besito. It means 'give me a little kiss'."
All of his internal alarms are going off, begging him to flee.
"I have to go," he says, uneasy, his stupid brain persuaded that she's attaching a hidden meaning to the phrase. It could be a coincidence. It could be that he's deranged, wishing so badly that she's requesting a smooch and not playing with his heart that he's distorting reality.
"Stay," she pleads. "Help me with my Spanish. Besitos, Soul. Besitos. Think about besitos."
He does, and even in his imagination, it's the best kiss in the world.
Her persistence and positive attitude toward reaching her goals work against his reticent tendencies. So does the fact that she's using him as a recliner, leaned back on him, thus having the advantage of trapping him. No matter which way he tries to fake, she catches him, blocking all escape routes. She literally has him pinned down, and it's not like his body dislikes it.
"Why are you acting so weird?" If he didn't know any better, he'd guess by the way her cheeky smile lights up the room that she suspects something. He's definitely not an expert on flirting by any definition of the word, but her hands are drawn to his shoulders a little too much when she turns around to face him, tugging gently at the downturned corners of his mouth.
"Live a little, Soul, you're so grumpy," she laughs, which only enforces his defense system to deepen his scowl. It's his mask. Without it, he'd be a blushing, giggling, flustered idiot.
She's adventurous. What begins as innocent finger wiggles near his armpits to wheedle a few chuckles out of him escalates into a wrestling match, Maka on the offensive trying to snake a hand up his shirt to twist his nipple while Soul shimmies away. Treacherous as his skin is, enjoying the attention, craving more, the sane side of his lovesick brain convinces him to put a stop to the nonsense.
"Okay, you're getting delirious," he blurts out, holding the hem of his shirt down. "Time for your medicine!"
Hissing like a cat, she bristles, obviously upset by the idea.
So maybe relying on the magical, sleep-inducing properties of night time cold medicine isn't the right answer, but it's at least a solution. Feisty, feverish, and ferocious, Maka anchors him down among tousled bed sheets, screaming protests, defending her health. Nothing will change his mind, though - she's hot to the touch, and he'd win twelve trophies for Worst Maka Sitter Ever.
For once, Soul prays for someone - where is Spirit when he's needed? - to crash through the sliding glass doors, pointing an accusing finger at their suggestive position. He needs to be rescued. But as luck would have it, his cries for help fall on deaf ears.
Good thing the grape flavored mixture is waiting on the nightstand, ready to be snatched, popped opened, and measured.
The struggle begins.
Cajoling Maka to relax is never an easy feat. She's wired for back-breaking stress, determined to test her abilities, not one to back down from a challenge that could help her grow. It's probably her best quality, but this situation doesn't call for any of her fighting instincts, the same grit that she invests in studying, or even training.
When Soul attempts to explain this as he backs her into the corner, balancing the cup in his right hand and beckoning with the other, she shakes her head. "No, I swear I'm better."
Some of her mulishness must have rubbed off on him, because he clenches his teeth and prepares himself for a foundation-shaking scuffle, scanning his periphery for anything he can equip as restrains. She charges at him, probably hoping to intimidate him into letting her pass, but he flings an arm out, catching her by the waistband.
Getting a flash of unadorned pink undies wasn't included in the plan in the fraction of a second he'd schemed her overthrow. As he body slams her onto the bed, he's shrieking a million apologies, she's halfway through a major tantrum, and the medicine spills all over the comforter.
There is stillness. He's incapable of feeling mortification. His only job was to nurse Maka and here he is, wrangling her into submission, probably prolonging her illness.
When he comes down from his daze, she's poking fun at him, smiling. "I was just kidding, Soul. Of course I'm going to take my medicine! I'm giving you a hard time on purpose, you're stressing out too much over me."
Red. Is that an emotion? He feels it on his face, the embarrassment too real. "Sorry! You're just being... So freakin' stubborn!"
She sticks out her tongue. "And you're worse than my papa, treating me like a baby."
He gasps, offended. Mr. Nice Weapon is done, one-hundred percent done. Before he can think of what he's doing, before he can think twice about sticking his rear out and allowing gravity to pull him down, he's pinning Maka under the faded blue sea turtle pattern of his pajama bottoms. Absolutely stunned, she stiffens for a few still seconds, blinking rapidly.
"Tell me," she says, frightfully calm, "that you're not sitting on me."
"I am." He shrugs. "So do something about it."
She does nothing, at first. Shocked, Maka twitches, hesitant, unbelieving. Flabbergasted. And then she bursts into a huge beam, laughing until she can't breathe. For a second, he wonders if he's crushing her, but then she's tugging his shirt, telling him she's waving her white flag.
"I'll be still for a fine of five besitos. Deal?"
The suggestion short circuits his brain. He's fragile. He wasn't built for brazen displays of affection - what if she's not serious? What if she is serious? A familiar cramp threatens to twist his intestines, the discomfort unbearable, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering out of control. Jitters rattle him to the very core.
Reaching down, he covers her eyes with a palm. "Don't play, Maka."
"I'm not," she says, splaying her hand on top of his.
The touch is enough. A weakling, that's what he is. He was built for Maka and this offer is too precious to give up. He rolls off, heart skipping along with the creak of the mattress as she springs up, lips brushing against his forehead. Perfection isn't something that he strives for but for this, oh god, for this, the word doesn't describe the feel of her hot lips against his cheek.
"One," she counts.
A few days later, when he's confined to the closet thanks to a germaphobe Ox because he's coughing up a lung and spiking an emergency-room-visit-worthy fever, he doesn't exactly regret the kisses. Especially not when Maka huddles among the team's suitcases with him, nursing him back to health with gentle forehead besitos.