ahh here is my late resbang entry for 2015. please take a moment to go to my tumblr (username redphlox) and view the lovely art that ifeanart and gemini-chan made for this fic! they are incredibly sweet and talented and wonderful to work with - please shower them with praises and compliments.

thanks so much to ProMa, Tens, Bendy, Nessie, and Lunar, and K for taking the time to beta! special shoutout to my bae-boo Nessie, who helped me tremendously with plotting. i want to also thank my friends for listening to my screaming and crying during the writing process.

warnings: depression, stalking, swearing, second-hand embarrassment, angst, and minor character death before the start of the fic. don't worry though - there is also plenty of kissing and fluff.

Summary: Being expelled from Juilliard tilts Soul Evans' world off its axis, and he finds himself in the unlikely position of landing a modeling contract at Mjlinor Strikes when Wes comes into contact with an old friend. After hitting rock bottom and having nothing to lose but money to gain, he accepts. His decision brings him to one Maka Albarn, a perky stylist who aspires to surpass her mother's legacy as a fashion designer, and captures Soul's attention with her tireless ambition and infectious smile. Their partnership forms over silent understandings and good natured teasing, but will it survive the pressure of Soul's overnight celebrity status, Maka's perfectionist tendencies, and malicious paparazzi? Model AU

Contents under Pressure
Chapter 1: like a gravitational pull

Soul's fascination with Maka Albarn is instantaneous.

With the clicking of heels on pristine floors matching his pulse's rhythm, she waltzes through the double doors with a calm confidence that he envies. She has a sureness about her, like she never puts the wrong foot down, and it's both magnetizing and overwhelming. Neat pigtails shouldn't enthrall him, but they do, in the same way that the sway of her hips commands attention.

Clipboard in hand, she's a perfect picture of enthusiasm as she wanders through the commotion of the photoshoot, curiosity tugging at her features. Repeated blinks do nothing to distract Soul from admiring toned arms and the way she holds herself upright. She carries a quiet radiance with her that he can't quite name - and this is when he begins to suspect that he may be a bit of a closeted romantic.

The few seconds before her green eyes meet his are like the ascent of a roller coaster. Anticipation simmers in his belly, fingertips buzzing from the thrill of the impending bump that precedes the drop. No amount of preparation can stop the way his stomach flips just a little bit when she first spots him and blinks slowly, how she pauses mid-stride.

It happens very quickly - a drop, a fall, a change. Soul stops wondering if he can return to other moments that have ended, a speck of hope daring to ask if this is finally a path that doesn't lead to dead ends, if the desensitization will be lifted from his life. Mistakes are his specialty, after all.

As the photographer tells him to "tilt your chin", the clicks resume and head toward him.

Posing in front of the camera changes him. He's not Soul Evans anymore, epic disappointment of a musician and inadequate carrier of the family name. That phase of his life is over. The moment he'd stepped onto the set and in front of the camera had marked the start of something new, something that will steer him into feeling more than dread when he thinks about how little he's accomplished compared to anyone else.

There's a blinding flash from the camera, and when the blurry spots dancing in his field of vision fade, she's only a few steps from being beside him.

"I'm Maka Albarn. Can I meet with you?" she asks, already holding out her hand.

She has the kind of smile that glows with sincerity and disarms at a whim, and he can't do anything but stare, slack-jawed.

Soul knows he's a goner. He knows he won't be able to smother the interest sparked by a name and damns himself over and over again for liking her silvery voice this much already.

Fuck.

"It's been three hours! How'd it go?"

"It went super duper, Wes."

"How super duper? What exactly happened?"

"There were people and someone gave me their business card."

"Details, Soul."

"Uhh… There was a line when I went into the room, and a couple of people came in and pulled some of us out of the line to talk. I was one of them. They asked for my portfolio and they gave it back after the shoot."

"Shoot?"

"Headshots and stuff, and some in character."

"What did they say about your portfolio?"

"I guess they liked it? They marked a few things... You don't need to babysit me, Wes."

"Can I see it? Jackie wants to know how it went too, so be sure to give her a call - oh, shit. What do these post-it notes on some of your pictures mean?"

"The coordinator told me she wants copies of them."

"That's a good sign, isn't it? What else happened?"

"During the shoot, someone pulled me out and took me to meet your friend Marie Mjolnir."

"The designer herself! Soul, that's incredible-"

"What? Why didn't you tell me she owns the company? You didn't mention that when you were talking me into doing this."

"You would've been worried about making a good impression. It worked out, anyway, I assume. What's the next step?"

"... Well, I didn't exactly sign on completely yet. I told her I'd think about it."

"Soul! That practically translates into a 'no'."

"Marie said she'd wait until I can get back to her."

"Why aren't you sure you want to model? You seemed mildly excited about it when we were on our way to the open call."

"Being signed on right then and there seemed too good to be true… too easy."

"That's the curse of being so good looking."

"Stop it, Wes."

"When you decide to let her know that you'll do it, let me know. I should give her a call-"

"Wait, did you ask Marie for this favor?"

"Everything's going to work out."

"You did something. Just tell me what you did."

"Suspicion isn't healthy, little brother."

"I don't need your pity or your help. Also, you didn't have to fly all the way out here just to drive me to the open call. I'm not exactly living up to the Evans standards, getting kicked of college before I could flunk out, but I'm not doing too terribly. I know our parents think I'm just crashing at Kilik's with no plans but-fuck, I messed up at Juilliard, I already know that, but I know I can do this. How hard could it be to pose in front of a camera, anyway?"

"They - well, all of us are worried. I'm worried. You've been moping around for months now. Mom and Dad haven't disowned you, Soul. You can always come back home. You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to, you know. You could always go back to school and get a degree in something else."

"Don't. I'm never going back. Mom might like having a bunch of letters and titles after her name, but I'm fine. Everything's fine. Let me do things for myself."

"Maybe you could even go to another college and do music. I'm being serious, Soul, give me a second to explain -"

"I want to be someone, I just don't know who. Now this modeling agency can tell me exactly who to be."

"That's not how it works, and even if all that's true, then why didn't you say yes immediately?"

"Uhm - err… Doesn't your plane leave soon? You're going to miss it, Wes. You should leave. I think I can walk back to the apartment by myself."

"You don't even have to go back to school - where are you going?"

"Away from you. Don't follow me."

There's nothing more satisfying to Soul than the metal door thundering shut, cutting off whatever else his perfect brother has to say about 'not trying hard enough.' Breathing takes less effort when he's not surrounded by Wes' constant parenting. It may be evasive of him, but Soul can't stand in the same hallway as Wes for a full three minutes without the cheating incident surfacing. Defense mechanism or not, Soul would just rather not talk about it – failure isn't his preferred cologne fragrance. He doesn't need it looming around him constantly.

Repression, though?

That's his shit right there, patented and copyrighted.

Scowling, Soul punches his hands into his pockets, realizing that the exit he had taken led to the backside of the building. Wes had been his ride, too, because he travels in style even if he's only in town for a day. Soul could use this opportunity to fume on a crowded and stuffy bus the whole way to Kilik's apartment - he doesn't have a thing to his name right now - and shake the indecisiveness away.

Problems with Wes aside, Soul still wants this gig to work out. Fashion isn't exactly the ideal lifestyle his parents had blueprinted out for him, or even how Soul had imagined things unfolding, but his current painful reality includes an absence of money and a greater sense of defectiveness. The longer he sleeps on Kilik's couch without pitching in rent, the emptier his existence feels.

This has to work out.

It has to.

It has to.

He can overlook the glaring nepotism. It will require biting his tongue until it bleeds and loathing himself twice as much for needing special treatment, but he can be blind if that's what it takes.

But is he just that - unworthy and incapable on his own?

Soul is stomping past a bench when a voice calls out to him.

"Oh – hey, Soul!" Maka is half shrouded in shadows from the nearby cluster of trees. The sunset light curves over the slope of her nose and lips and Soul doesn't know how to handle wisps of her hair sailing in the cool breeze. Stifling the unreasonable urge to tuck them back into their neat place, Soul summons the strongest facade of coolness he's ever pulled, but she sees right through it.

"Didn't want to go home, either?" she asks brightly. Phone clutched in her lap like she has given up on waiting for a promised call, she holds her shoulder back in the same tired way Soul used to when he was sick to his soul of practicing piano, stress alone keeping his back muscles firing.

"Something like that," Soul allows, and then surprises himself by adding, "I'm just avoiding everything, like I always do."

Shit. Sarcasm probably won't endear him to anyone. Models are friendly, approachable, and not sharp tongued. The odds of making a quick buck to prove his worth to his parents dwindles the more he slouches, but he can't help it. Soul consists of three fourths fuck this, an eighth of no, a sixteenth of I really don't care, and the rest of quiet, empty desperation. If there's room for hope, he's the last to know.

Maka doesn't tell him to stand tall or stop frowning. She only looks at him uncertainly. "Let's drop the formalities?"

Relief entails plopping down next to Maka without worrying about appearances. "I'd like that."

Calm settles between them. Soul lets go of worried thoughts like snipping away at threads that attach him to anchors, and Maka stuffs her phone into her purse. After he'd taken her hand at the photoshoot, his head had spun in a whirlwind of disbelief. They actually want to hire him, holy shit.

"You were okay today," Maka begins.

Soul huffs. "I was more than okay, the way you were staring at me." Cringing inwardly, Soul berates himself - was this too snarky?

She isn't shaken. "Marie is really interested in you. Says you're perfect because you have a unique look."

Resentment compels Soul to think that Wes had probably had a hand in this comment, too, but it doesn't stop all of the air in his lungs from being siphoned out by these few words, because Soul is breathless. Of all the gimmicks to fail, modeling should be the one to crash and burn in a millisecond. Inspired by the last resort type of anxiety, Soul's decision to show up for the open call was encouraged by his overbearing brother, who has more connections than a phone operator.

"I'm not sure if I want to do it," Soul admits. "During the photo shoot I realized I'd been hoping I could go back to music somehow, but… that's not going to happen."

Maka's a stranger. He isn't sure why he's spilling his inner thoughts to someone who could potentially be his boss. If anything, he should be wary, since she could be involved in Wes' nosy schemes.

"I'll be honest with you, Soul. You have a lot of potential. Even if you start out small and do an ad here or there, you could work your way up to other modeling gigs, if that's what you want."

Soul had been speechless during the meeting. It had been such a blur, he can't remember anything but Marie's kind enthusiasm and Maka looking interestedly at him. "You sound so sure. Are you a model, too?"

Maka titters. "I'm a stylist. I'm going to build myself up and become a designer. Marie does let me design some of the clothes we use onset, but that's between the two of us - and you, now."

Soul winks. "I pinky promise not to tell anyone. What kind of clothes do you design?"

"Why do you ask? Are you Interested?" Perfectly groomed eyebrows waggle playfully and Soul can't help but feel his cheeks inflame in response. He's never been smooth or witty, so his retort is an embarrassing knot of misdelivered snark. Shame doesn't discourage him from fumbling through another attempt at good natured mockery. It should be the reason that Maka turns tail and decides he isn't anything more than a pretender, but his heart strums as he is rewarded with more laughter.

Maybe he's met his match, too. "Being tongue-tied isn't cool."

Redeeming what little of his ego he had had left is out of the question now, so Soul hushes up and glares while she pulls herself together.

"It's fine. We said we'd drop the formalities..." She's cheery to the point of frustration, even when Soul is struggling to keep the corners of his lips tucked down in his well practiced frown.

"I'll show you my portfolio if you come with me to dinner," she tantalizes, holding up a leather folder to cover the lower half of her face, waving it.

Soul weighs his options.

Sh is a lithe thing in a maroon skirt that would reveal eighty percent of her long legs if they weren't covered by the black stockings. Nothing about her stark white long sleeved shirt particularly screams 'fashionista' to Soul. Even her nails are trimmed to well-maintained perfection. Accepting the invitation would be insane - she seems like she could dig the pointy end of her heel into his neck with a swift kick and then offer her hand to help him up, all in one graceful movement.

Trust normally doesn't come easily for him. It's a foreign concept to him, especially when his peers had more often than not acted polite during practices but would have smacked their competition with a music stand at any moment if it meant getting first chair, or even playing a solo that consists of three notes.

He's Soul Evans, perpetually alone and hesitant to mingle - this dinner should be strictly professional despite the laidback relationship he and Maka have established for themselves. Saying no to free food would be a sin. Secretly hoping to learn just a little bit more about her, he stands up and cants his head in the direction of his favorite diner.

"There's a good place a few blocks away," he suggests, leading the way.

Holes perforate the faded leather of the booth he and Maka slide into, menus propped open. The last orange sunset rays give way into silver mists that accompany twilight. Even in this light Maka looks almost otherworldly, wearied but exuding a warm confidence. A little voice in his head reprimands him for bringing someone with standards to the greasiest burger joint in the state; Maka looks so out of place against the chipped wall paint and faded posters.

Their waiter swoops in on them before Soul can suggest another location.

Salad and a triple pattied burger with the works ordered, Maka turns to him.

"Evans," she repeats, gears in her mind turning. "I've heard that name before. Ahh - are you related to Wes Evans?"

"He's my brother." Hate carries a strong sting, but so does the whip that attacks Soul whenever the connection between him and world renowned violinist and composer Wes Evans is revealed. Even when he's nowhere in sight, his older brother's influence is stretched out before Soul like an infinite horizon he doesn't want to look at. If anything, Wes' prodigal skills have spotlighted their family name with more eminence than any of their other relatives' reputations combined.

"He played at Marie's wedding. He's pretty good. Stein - Marie's husband - filled Wes' violin with fake blood so when he picked it up to play for their first dance, it looked like a scene from a cheap gorey horror movie."

Good, Soul thinks sourly. Any moment where Wes is less than perfect is gold for Soul.

"Did you meet him? My brother." It's a loaded question, one that will decide if he can believe Maka's genuineness.

"I was too busy chasing Marie and Stein's two year old. That little kid gets into everything! I still don't know where she found that snake… I bet she was going to put it into your brother's violin, too."

"He deserves it."

"At least it wasn't poisonous… I think."

Their food arrives and the disgusting feeling in Soul's stomach subsides. Maybe Maka isn't part of Wes' ploy. The dreaded question what instrument did you play? never forms. Instead, Maka's eyes light up like a wildfire as she exclaims, "Ohh! I read the interview you did with Shaula Gorgon! Did you really roll your eyes and leave in the middle of it?"

"She was asking too many personal questions," Soul defends, remembering the reporter's cocky smirk as she asked him what it was like to be the only Evans in five generations to not be invited to play at Carnegie Hall. She'd had a field day when it came out that he hadn't written his final for his upper level composition class entirely on his own. Not that Soul had needed to see cheater plastered on every headline. His parents' eyes had said it all.

Maka clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Shaula's terrible, just like her sisters. When she interviewed me, she had the nerve to make fun of the clothes I was wearing and bring up my papa's scandal with the porn actress that has an elbow sucking fetish – I want to be a fashion designer, you know, not anyone's keeper!"

The way her chin wrinkles only makes her furious scowl less fear-provoking, and Soul stifles an entertained snicker by shoveling pickle slices into his mouth.

"They live off of humiliating others. It's better to ignore all of them," she continues, picking through her salad looking as if she's lost something before shoving it away with the back of her hand. "But I'm too bitter." Waving down the waiter, she asks for coffee with two sugars and a cookie cake. "With two scoops of vanilla ice cream, please."

"Stress eating?" Grease drips down the sides of his pinkies as he bites into his burger.

"Like you wouldn't believe." The dark splotches beneath her eyes don't lie. "And I'm not going to sleep anytime soon," she adds, shrugging. "Anyway, Shaula's older sisters are designers, too. Arachne and Medusa." Pausing to nibble on her lip, she glances down at her lap for so long that Soul thinks she's forgotten all about his presence. Even her eyelashes are the same shade of wheat as her pigtails. Creases along the edges of her eyes tell Soul that introspection is not foreign to Maka.

"I used to work for Arachne as her personal assistant. I thought it would be a great opportunity… she's very influential in fashion. But apparently she doesn't like it when coffee is spilled all over her sketches and next thing I know, she's smiling and firing me at fashion week. In front of other designers."

Soul winces. The second hand embarrassment is too real. Who knew he could be so empathetic?

"So basically... I blew it," she sighs.

"But your future shouldn't depend on this one mistake..."

"I'm just glad she didn't use my name and that it was semi-dark in there. Otherwise, my career would have ended before it started. I've known Marie since before I could remember. She's taken me under her wing."

In this way, he and Maka share many similarities.

Maka tilts the sugar dispenser upside down when her coffee arrives, narrowing her eyes. "Shaula's not even good at her job. Her articles are poorly written. Even I could write better with one arm tied behind my back and wearing a blindfold!"

The vindictive gossip in Soul revels in this shit-talking session. There is enough bottled-up hatred in his body to supply Hell with its heat source, and Maka's scythe-sharp attacks on the tabloid industry's most loathed writer only warm him up to the petite fireball.

"What about you? Why do you want to into modeling?"

Soul blows a sarcastic raspberry. "Honestly… Because of my parents, really. I've played piano all my life, and when I told them I didn't want to go to music school because I was so burnt out, they wouldn't accept it, so I went anyway and kind of, uh... dropped out. So this is next."

There is comfortable silence. Soul doesn't feel the need to add that he thinks the musically gifted gene had been muted in him, that performing had felt more like a stressful chore than an enjoyable art. Something about the way Maka takes a deep breath makes Soul believe that she has somehow understood this about him, and that this is why no vague reassurances like you'll like playing music again soon or it'll come back are voiced. Instead, Maka leans on her elbows and tucks her chin into her palm.

"Hopefully, you'll be much happier," she says like she really means it - like she doesn't doubt it.

Soul taps his index fingers on the table thoughtfully. "I hope so." More drumming. "Let's see your sketchbook, then."

"Prepare to be astonished," Maka grins, winking.

For the second time that day, Maka Albarn fascinates. Detailed sketches stare back at him. The colors on the tuxedos make him stare for longer than he should because he's had a lifetime of wearing them. Casual wear is what really captures his attention - Maka's designs are the epitome of chill aesthetic. It's a cross between jeans and leather jackets and patterned sweaters meets formal wear. Three pages are dedicated to scarves alone. The models are faceless and this sends cold pinpricks up and down his spine, (is this how models are seen?) but their clothes speak volumes about their mood.

"Your drawings are so shitty," Soul laughs, defaulting to saying the wrong thing to avoid feeling too much. "Is that a tie or a rag?"

Pink highlights her cheeks and she swats him away. "Don't touch, your fingers are greasy!"

"Wait, I'm kidding! You said to drop the formalities."

"Formalities, not manners!"

Soul slides her coffee mug away. "Be careful, or you'll spill coffee on your own work."

"At least I can't fire myself," she grumbles, miserable. "I'm so thankful to Marie for letting me help her out. She hired me to be a stylist, but I help her with some administrative things because she's been so busy."

There's that lower lip nibble before Maka smiles. Soul has no protests about being conditioned to this.

She continues, "My mama was a designer, too. And my papa is a model, even though he's losing endorsements and contracts left and right because of all the trouble he gets himself into." Soul feels the powerful scorn of a well-practiced eye roll even if it isn't directed at him. "I went to a boarding school for arts after she died…" She pauses, straightening, looking at him with determination that makes his forearms prickly with goosebumps. "People have a certain expectation of me, you know?"

This resonates with him. Nodding wordlessly, he pretends not to notice the quiver clipping the end of her sentence. Memories of first days of school rush into his mind like a flood, teachers' expectations skyrocketing through the stratosphere as soon as they realize that Soul looks like a miniature Wes, only not blond and brown eyed. The fall for them had never been as painful as it had been for him, who could never measure up to his family's talent.

Never enough.

Maka tells him that even abroad, the Albarn surname and attached fame had stuck by her like a magnet.

A designer's daughter, Maka had grown up with the knowledge that she would inherit the dynasty that is her mother's legacy. Patterns and fabrics tell stories of a young designer's one night stand with a red headed model that resulted in a prematurely born baby. Maka had been nurtured with handmade frilly dresses, plenty of eskimo kisses, and divided time between disagreeing parents who traveled too much. She had been a bridge between them and she had been the only thing that hadn't crumbled in their marriage. Tabloids had frolicked behind Maka's straying father and harassed Maka's workaholic mother but had ignored young Maka until her college years, where she had sparked a feminist movement in her campus' design program.

Maka's going to succeed and conquer the industry with an infallible smile and delicate hands, because she can, because she wants to - because of her mama, who was like a flower that succumbed to an early frost. The day of the car accident, eight year old Maka had been asking recently divorced Marie to braid her hair. As Marie had gathered each bundle in ribbons, the tires of her papa's expensive car had left skidmarks leading into the wrong turn lane, and the smoke that curled into the sky as a result of a three car collision was a representation of her mama's life and her papa's crushed spirit as he held his wife's limp hand.

Soul suspects Maka hasn't allowed herself to cry, even to this day.

Eyelids heavy, Soul chalks up his suddenly somber thoughts to sleep drunkness, his thoughts both lucid and strange. Deciding to work with Maka - the company, actually, but he wants to stay and watch Maka's glory - comes as an instinct to him. She's going to be amazing when she really gets going.

How to let her know is a whole other game.

"Okay, I'm in," Soul agrees so abruptly that Maka sets down her spoon, confusion and shock battling to paint her face. "But only if you agree to be my stylist. Partners?"

"Partners," Maka echoes, disbelief clipping each syllable. The cookie cake is set in front of her, the plate clashing with her mug like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, but Soul seems to be the only thing green eyes see. "Partners. I'd like that."

The night is crisp and clear and scantly interrupted by other pedestrians or traffic when they slide outside, prompted by impatient glares from the staff and a "now closed" sign. A glance at his phone tells Soul that this peace is the special kind of stillness only found at two in the morning. Unsure of what to say or do next, Soul shuffles his weight from foot to foot, hands buried in his jean pockets. Should he extend his hand in friendship? Is that appropriate? They're already floating in limbo because of the breach of professionalism.

Fortunately for him, she's already decided, and he's glad to follow her lead.

"I'll walk you home," Maka says, wiggling on her cardigan and working the skull-shaped buttons through slits. "After all, new models must be protected from the public, especially ones who are under my care."

Soul snickers. "And you're going to defend me against these supposed rabid fans?"

She pretends to glance around. "Where would these imagined fans be…?"

"Not hiding in a dark alley, I hope."

"Don't worry, nobody's going to hide in a dumpster just to get closer to you."

Nothing about this comment should particularly spur glee, but it does. Teasing Maka is a wild ride.

"Jealousy isn't a great color on you, Maka."

"Those skinny jeans aren't a great fit or color on you."

Soul whistles lowly. Maka is fun and witty and everything he's not. There is a certainty in her step that he wants to emulate on the runway, if he gets there. Playing pretend is his forte, unfortunately. 'Fake it until you make it' is his motto and literally how he crawled by in his music career until his reservoir of fucks to give had emptied. "Ouch. I don't like the insinuation that I am anything less than perfect," he grumbles playfully, clutching his chest.

"No one said you had to like the truth," is her swift reply.

"You're difficult." She's wonderful.

"I'm the best kind of difficult." She shrugs as though this is a nonnegotiable fact. Take it or leave it. Soul has to agree. They glance sideways at one another - Maka squinting bashfully to let him know she's teasing, and Soul feels every trace of shaky doubts fading. What had there been to distrust about Maka? She's gentle, yet fierce. Soul has never been one to let curiosity be a driving force behind his decisions, but his resolve to have faith in Maka's confidence is only heightened.

Their footfalls harmonize while another cool waft of air whispers by. The gap between fall and winter brings mystery, stirs the innate need in him to change, and has always been Soul's favorite moment of the year. This year the faint scent of vanilla mingles with the incoming shifting winds.

Maka slows and glances at the double doors of an inn wedged between a bookstore and a coffee shop called Rise and Grind.

"This is where I live, but I can come back after I drop you off."

Soul raises an eyebrow. "You live in a hotel?"

"I haven't found an apartment yet. I just moved here a few weeks ago."

"You can't - what? Do you even know your way around yet?"

Begrudgingly, she admits that no, she doesn't, but she has a phone and knows that GPS is a useful, evolutionary tool. Soul waves away the sarcasm, insisting that she can walk him home next time, when she learns the ins and outs of bustling and eclectic city.

"Deal, but only if you wait for me in the lobby. I want to give you something."

Wordlessly, Soul follows her through the doors. A burly man perched behind the counter nods at Maka, his coffee mug dwarfish in comparison to his oversized hands.

Nothing about the faded, timeworn furniture reminds Soul of all the overpriced hotels his family prefers, and it makes him more fond of Maka.

He tries not to breathe too deeply, not wanting his lungs to shrivel from bitterness. At least Maka is quick to return. There is a ding; she is a blur melted with vibrant colors. "Here you go. I figured I could dump one of these annoying vases that my papa keeps sending to me on you, partner," is all she says, shoving it against his chest and jumping back to disappear behind the doors before they close again.

Soul squints at the call back button – he could summon the elevator and return these flowers to Maka. He knows all the signs of pushing others away and she's definitely guilty. He picks out the card wedged between the daisies and smirks because maka, papa loves you forever is neatly crossed out with a single line and replaced with a series of numbers written in red ink.

"Goodnight, Maka," he says to himself, pocketing it. The elevator hasn't lifted - he hopes she heard him through the doors somehow.