"If you're not in love with him, why don't you prove it?"
"How, exactly?"
"Easy," Liz waves a hand. "Kiss him."
Soul chokes on his punch and nearly gags. Enticing. Maka finds herself rubbing his back and coaxing him through the finer details of breathing (inhale, exhale, there you go) as Liz smiles shrewdly.
"Wh–" He's sputtering. "Don't I get a say in this?"
Liz gives him a look that very clearly spells out his fate and he shuffles back into his seat, scowling deeper. Part of Maka thinks she should probably be a little more offended that he's so resolute in his disgust – she may be a kiss virgin, but she doesn't think she'srevolting – but she's kind of clammy at the thought of it too. Kissing him cannot be any more private than dancing in the depths of his soul, though, so she glares at his balking and wills him to suck it up.
He catches on quickly. He always does. "You're not serious, Maka."
"It won't mean anything," she says dismissively. "It'll be like kissing kissing your brother. You know I brush my teeth, Soul. And use mouthwash."
"That's not the point!"
If there's another point, she's missing it. She's thinking of nothing but Liz's knowing stare, Patty's shrieks of giggles, Tsubaki hiding a sly smile behind her hands. Maka sees Black*Star make a crude gesture with his hips and hardens her resolve.
"Soul Eater Evans," Maka says dangerously, lowly, in her meister voice. He stiffens at once. "Come over here and kiss me."
Something flashes in his eyes and Maka easily reads the betrayal in his wavelength. Scarcely does she pull the meister card on him, mostly because she doesn't like exploiting a power imbalance in a partnership that she views as equal, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She is nothing if not proud, and it's infuriating the way everyone looks at her like they know a secret she can't hide.
Soul is her best friend. Soul is her weapon. And she is not in love with him, not in the way everyone else thinks. There are other kinds of love besides romantic and sexual, and the platonic adoration she holds for him is second to none.
She would die for him. She would kill for him. She has done both. The life of a meister in Death City is not gentle and forgiving; it is dangerous, taxing, and she has seen more than her fair share of horrors in her twenty years. Perhaps it's that constant reminder of death around the corner that forces them together closer, closer, into a symbiotic existence that makes her value his life over hers on the battlefield.
But kissing him will not change how she feels. And if she can prove it this way, she will.
Soul glowers at her, his wine colored eyes cautious and nervous all at once, and part of her wants to pinch him to snap out of it. She can't understand what he's so nervous about; doesn't he have more faith in their friendship than that?
"Soul," Maka says again.
He turns where he sits, leaning an arm across the back of the couch. "This is so fucking stupid. I can't believe you're making me do this," he complains passionately, and both Liz and Patty simper. She wants to scream at him, or throttle him, or something, because he's protesting too much and doesn't make himself look very innocent.
But what do any of them know? Aside from Kid, none of them have soul perception. They can't read his very existence the same way she can.
"Just do it," she huffs. "And tilt your head. Or something. I've never kissed anyone before."
"Christ, I'm – I shouldn't be your first kiss, Maka. We don't have to prove shit to them," he says furiously, his eyes narrowed into haughty slits, and she doesn't think she's seen him this fired up about anything in a long time.
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Kim sing-songs, and Maka's blood burns.
Before he can say anything else, before anyone else can tease her like they know her heart, she leans forward and grazes her mouth against his. Soul's lips aren't nearly as chapped as she thought they might be, and the kiss is over just as quickly as it's began. He gasps a second too late and claps a hand over his mouth, pupils blown wide.
It's over and righteousness fills her like liquid fire. "See," she huffs. "Nothing."
"Kiss him like you mean it."
Maka jerks a glare at Liz, pigtails whipping around. "I can't mean it," she says. "It's not like that."
Liz raises a brow and Maka glances back at her partner. He gapes at her, searching for words, and she chances a peek at his soul just long enough to read past the blatant anger and hurt to catch glimpse of surprise, and the saddest twinkle of rejection before his hands cup her jaw and he kisses her.
This time it is different. She tastes his mouth, warm and wet and hurried and angry, but still oddly satisfying and good. Tongues are something she's never really thought of before as pleasurable, but his is so dexterous and talented, and she feels a little like the souls he so enjoys devouring. Soul towers over her, leaning onto his knees to better slant his mouth over hers. He's going for gold, out to make a point, or maybe to show her up, but it's hard to think of anything except the way her fingers tingle and her head feels like floating away.
He releases her slowly, gradually, panting. There's telltale embarrassed blushing and it's not because he likes her like that, but because he's Soul and he isn't one to take charge or steal her breath away like that. He's people shy – even when it concerns her, apparently.
Or kissing her, at least. Her stomach burns.
Maka holds a hand to her mouth and shakes out a breath. Soul retreats back into himself, frowning deeply and sinking back into the couch cushions.
"… See," she reprises, voice wobbly. "Nothing."