Please accept this wedding planner AU as my resbang 2017 entry! Shoutout to professor-maka and jaded-envy for all their betaing help and love and support! Couldn't have done this without them! Also, please take time to look at mrsashketchum's accompanying art pieces for this fic - she's outrageously talented and is the best resbang partner ever! Please shower her in love, she is so lovely!
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Close Your Eyes by redphlox
Soul closes his eyes and continues to wait for someone who isn't coming. Though he promises himself not to feel anything until he has no other choice, he still leaves the tiniest space to mourn the fact that Maka won't hear the vows he's kept boarded up since they made the pact. The part of him that pines for her with feverish loyalty can't accept this false alarm, this almost. Hell is reality sinking in and reminding him that Maka does love him, but only as a friend.
Honestly, he can't afford to carry these feelings around anymore.
But that's always been the problem, his problem - he doesn't know where or how to drop them.
He's trying to resign himself to the truth, to make the announcement and send the ever hopeful guests home, when careful footfalls come up beside the wicker chair he had dragged behind the tables hoarding the high piles of wedding gifts.
"Someone's going to have an aneurysm when she sees you've been sticking your finger in the wedding cake to scrape off the icing," Wes's voice says, though his usual warmth and joviality is now tenuous, bordering fake, its intent overprotective.
"She's not coming," Soul replies, sounding grainy to his own ears - like there's sand in his throat, and the more he clears it away, the more it avalanches back to choke him. Here he is, caught between the threat of sternum splitting misery and wanting to foolishly stay put for as many hours or days as it might take for Maka to arrive.
He's a goner.
There's a pause that bleeds one-third pity and two-thirds concern, but Soul rejects all of it with well practiced, counterfeit stoicism. He can feel sorry for himself in the comfort of his own mind, alone, thank you. But then Wes heaves a shaky, empathetic sigh that jars Soul into clenching his jaw as a defense mechanism.
Just like that, the charade collapses in on itself.
"I'm sorry, Soul. I'm so fucking sorry..."
Betrayal is the pain blooming into something distant and slight instead of mercifully absent. Blaming Wes for the breach of emotional safety consoles Soul for the briefest of seconds until he realizes he's never fully mastered the art of casual desensitization in the first place.
"Me too..."
Wes, an optimist through and through, switches to praising the venue to mitigate the tension hanging between them. "It's beautiful, exquisite even, you've outdone yourself…" He stops, probably to glance around at the miniature lanterns hanging from the tree branches, taking in the millions of LED string lights woven into sheer clothed canopy tents. "I bet you're the one who came up with the 'Starry Night' theme."
"I don't remember," Soul replies honestly. Maybe the idea had been a mutual understanding from the beginning, when they were fifteen year olds swearing to stay in each other's lives until it came time for one of them to voyage beyond. Pledging to get married if neither found their soul mate by thirty had been innocent, but now they're twenty-six-ish and way in over their heads, jumping the gun after catching the wedding fever from their clients.
To make things worse, he's not sure who proposed first either, but maybe they had decided that together, too.
Beside him, Wes talks and talks and and talks. About everything, about nothing. Skirting around Maka's name like it's a trigger word, delaying the inevitable conversation about ending tonight's festivities, misunderstanding Soul's need to drown in solitude because it's both cathartic and self-maiming. Nothing could ever change the fact he's a little bit of a masochist and would trade all of his senses for Maka Albarn. His softness for her is a curse he's not willing to break.
After all, Soul perpetually longs to be with her, even when she's near. It's so bad and always has been, even back then. When they were teenages, thoughts about her increased tenfold when his head hit the pillow at night, and even when he did fall asleep, the ache would wake him at odd, brief intervals. At times he wished an ax would divide his skull in half so he would stop and know peace. It hurt, feeling so much felt like being cremated, because he knew deep down it was in vain, all horribly one-sided, and yet he still desperately hoped to someday sleep beside her at night. There's something beautiful and forlorn about how the darkness closes in and erases everything except the things and people within his reach, and that's why it made sense to marry Maka at 11:11 pm.
But the time came and went. She's not here, and Soul doesn't blame her one bit.
"It's okay Wes, really," Soul lies, breathing in the cool fall air. He wants the season to strip him bare like it does the trees, to turn him off until he's ready to be reset into someone new and whole. "I'm not fragile, you can talk about her. We were just getting married as friends. She probably didn't want to throw away her chance of meeting 'The One.' I'm not mad, just kind of… disappointed, I guess."
"This seems like quite the setup for something that didn't mean much," Wes counters gently. "A small wedding with your closest family and friends-"
"Shut up Wes, you don't know your left from your right and your idea of a relationship is loving them and leaving them."
"Such hostility, as always," his brother muses, his ensuing whistle coated with a hint of relieved appreciation for the trademark snark, as if it serves as a positive sign of Soul's road to recovery. "Whatever you say, Little Bro."
"I'm allowed to be cool about this, okay? Yeah, it sucks. This was going to be awesome for us for tax purposes, but I want her to be happy."
And he's selfish, because he also wanted to kiss her. God, he would sell his right arm on Ebay for three cents to kiss her right now. He would rip it off himself for free.
"Ah-huh," Wes agrees, giving Soul the impression that he's not intending to let this subject die like he usually does, and Soul braces himself for relentless, meddlesome, prying until Wes says, "And you two already live together anyway, so nothing would have changed by getting married... Right?"
It's not much of a consolation, but the air is thick with Wes's unsaid words, a confirmation that the comment was meant as an opportunity for Soul to open up. He won't, of course - repress and don't tell anyone you're depressed is his motto - but it touches Soul that his older brother has come to his rescue without being called and won't leave until he's one hundred percent sure of Soul's stability.
His question met with no answers, Wes tries again: "And since Mom and Dad are footing the bill for all this you didn't lose any money, so really, it's just more experience for your business… Right?"
No, no, none of that ever mattered to Soul, who had trailed behind Maka with his parents' credit card in his pocket as they picked out tablecloths together for their wedding. Surrendering to his impulses, he had rested a supportive hand on the small of her back when she grimaced under indecisive strain. Green eyes had locked into his as she shuddered under his lingering touch, and he could have sworn they were resonating, caught up in each other, waiting -
But instead of confessing, he looked away and let the moment and the energy pass.
He messed up.
"The business is fine how it is, Wes, and so am I," he says, and the more he denies it the more he's sure the worst is yet to come.
"You don't look fine, Soul, you look heartbroken!"
Mirror mirror on the wall, sings through Soul's mind bitterly.
"And you're so emotionally constipated you don't realize you're hurting, Baby Bro!"
"The pain in my chest is because of you being up my butt like a ringworm." Soul almost laughs at his own joke, but busting his guts would probably result in Wes calling an ambulance straight to the ER and commandeering the tranquilizers to inject Soul himself, so that's stifled, too.
Cue a frustrated sigh from Wes, then the crunch of leaves beneath shoes, like he's kicking the ground. "... Are you still going to LA?"
"I don't know, Wes. I have to talk to Maka, I don't… think she'll want to go with me anymore. And I don't want to leave her. Or the business. Y'know? I'm her partner, and uh… I don't know."
More sand, clotting Soul's throat.
Wes doesn't miss a beat. He's not ruthless, just stubbornly trying to prove a point and drill through Soul's bulletproof denial. "You can still go on the honeymoon together. It wasn't real anyway... right?"
"Mmm-hmm," Soul musters because he can't let Wes win. "Mom and Dad took care of that with their money too, so it's no big deal, like you said."
But that's a lie too because it is a big deal to everyone, and that's precisely why he can't admit the sinking feeling in his stomach makes him want to stop existing. Rumor among their friends and family has it that he and Maka are soul mates in every shape and form, but everyone's so wrong, so wrong, and he's the only stupid one who fell for his best friend.
Still, neither he nor Maka had hesitated to accept his parent's offer to cover the wedding, or bothered to correct them when they chimed, "Anything for our favorite couple."
Even Soul forgets they aren't - aren't like that. Ironing and folding her laundry when she forgets to take it out of the dryer actually relaxes him, and buying furniture together tends to turn into planning their first home together, complete with the gaming area, workout room, and spacious backyard for water balloon fights. They leave the light on if one of them will be home late, with Soul coming out of his room to greet her when he hears the door knob jiggle because he couldn't sleep anyway. Usually he finds Maka waiting on the couch, reading a book or curled up under a blanket, snoring.
It had felt so… real.
"Best reason to marry you is getting to hear you promise to love me forever," Maka had said, stepping close to him, Soul too mesmerized by the unusual softness - the insecurity - in her tone to spout some smartass remark and put her at ease.
Maybe he had messed up then, too.
Intimacy with Maka looks like that sometimes, like something unsure and taboo, and he's not sure what to think of it. There's nothing more platonic than cooking for his best friend while she sits at the table and tests the temperature of the bubbling footbath by dipping her toes in, recounting how her bad day had started off by both her heel and her patience breaking as she fought the wind for control of her umbrella. Rubbing her feet shouldn't be interrupted by accidental kicks and nervous explanations that she's ticklish and Soul your hands are too callousy for my calves.
She's too sensitive to him for some reason. Freezing up under his touch, softening, flinching, shuddering. Barely, only enough for him to register in the back of his mind. Like the tablecloth incident, or the mornings he drowsily helps bobby pin her hair into submission and her shoulders hike up at his touch. The vague awkwardness is a barrier between them, a flaw in their friendship -
"Do you want to give her more time?"
Yes, God yes.
But Soul's throat finally seals shut with the finality of the words he can't bring himself to articulate: "No, it's a lost cause." He's been buried alive by that grainy, god forsaken sand, so there's no need to open his eyes to confront his feelings or move.
The musician in Wes knows silence carries more meaning than sound. "Want me to tell everyone?"
A stranger might confuse this noble offering for brotherly love, but the resentment bubbling in Soul proves anything but, at least on his part. He can't help but dislike Wes - perfect, perfect Wes, gifted with luck and charm and poise, always getting what he wants, cruising by in life without a strife or self doubt.
"No, I have to tell everyone…" Gulping down his old fear of crowds is instinct now. "I will. It has to be me."
Wes's gentleness and unconditional support is equal to a mercy killing. "Then open your eyes, Soul."
"Give me time." It comes out as a desolate plea, so Soul corrects it by tacking on a forcibly crude, "Shit, let me be. You're giving me hemorrhoids."
Wes walks away with such respect of Soul's grief that it stings and bruises. Pushing people away isn't the answer, but then again, he's not sure what the question was, or if one had ever existed.
Soul stays in the wicker chair for another hour, maybe two, hoping to feel the earth rotate beneath him and thus bind him to this moment's brevity. Then he stands on his feet, opening his eyes, letting the melancholy sink into his bones as he wanders back to the reception area with his hands in his pockets.
No one has left. Maybe they all wordlessly agreed to give Maka a chance to change her mind. Even Blake - lovably insufferable, lewd, overzealous Blake - is slumped over at his table, snoring and drooling faithfully in wait for the wedding to begin. Next to him, Kim has a flirtatious arm draped over a blithely flushed Jackie's shoulders as they admire the twinkling lights overhead, though it's nothing compared to the red coloring Tsubaki's face. Glowing, she bites down a smitten smile at Wes as he whispers something by her ear, the pair tucked away in their own intimate corner.
That's new, Soul thinks, harboring no jealousy or ill will. Maka's best friend and his brother hadn't met until yesterday at the rehearsal dinner - not that Soul had eyes for anyone but Maka and her pinched, glowing cheeks, worries about his sweaty palms overridden by all the hand holding they had been doing.
Maybe she's coming after all -
When he makes eye contact with Liz, though, he knows. Never one to hang idly by, she had left in search of Maka hours ago, but it seems she returned empty-handed except for deep-seated, second-hand heartbreak and an apparent pledge to avoid him, probably loath to confirm Soul's fears and losses.
Bravely, and dissociating to protect himself, Soul steps onto the raised platform where he and Maka were supposed to say their vows.
"She's not coming," Soul says loudly, meeting the shocked stares with a meticulously crafted barren expression. Busying his hands with undoing his tie and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his longsleeve helps ebb his self-consciousness. "Thanks for staying and for the gifts, but take them with you when you leave… and take as much food as you can."
A disturbed murmur breaks out amongst the guests, slow at first but then igniting like a wildfire - we can wait, some insist, don't give up on her, and what is akin to a brick slamming into his face: but you love each other so much.
"Soul!" a weepy Spirit howls over the scattered protests, rising from his seat like he's about to march up and reprimand Soul for his brute impatience. It's not like Soul to give up when it comes to Maka Albarn.
Brushing off his ex future father-in-law with a lethargic wave isn't meant to be rude, but it's three or four in the morning and Soul is a volatile, useless, crushed mess. All he can do now is follow the blaring intuition that Maka Albarn will be at their apartment when he eventually stumbles through the door. She probably never left. Soul should have helped her get ready that morning, even if it broke tradition, but she's too independent for her own good and had resolved to get ready for the wedding by herself, and that had been that.
Bad luck follows when the groom sees the bride in her dress before the wedding, but in his sleep-deprived, deeply devoted haze, Soul forgets about all that superstitious crap when he's standing in the doorway half an hour later. Sniffles reach him through the dark apartment, and he sprints to the bathroom instinctively. Knees hugged to her chest, Maka is huddled in the empty tub, face buried in the frumpled dresskirt tumbled over her legs.
"Maka?"
She lifts her head in response, loosely styled curls falling over her swollen eyes. "Hi," she hiccups, covering her mouth, crumbling into a mute wail. "I'm so s-orry."
He rushes over, dropping so hard to the tiled floor that lightning-like pain splits through his kneecaps and blasts up and down his thighs and calves, ignoring it to cup her face. "What happened - why are you crying? What's wrong?"
Helpless, he leans over her as she shakes in the effort to barricade more tears in, holding her tight to absorb a fraction of the anguish bottled up inside her - this is his fault, his fault.
"My necklace… I messed it up," she says, holding up the silver chain he gifted her because neither were fond of the idea of engagement rings. He puts his hand over her wobbly one. "It was-was walking around, tr-trying to finish getting read-y… and it got ca-caught. On the doorknob. And I yanked without thinking and - I broke it."
"S'okay," he reassures, squeezing her closed hand. "It's okay."
"And then I thought, o-okay, I'll… put it in a safe place. On my desk. But-but, then." She heaves into a coughing fit before sputtering on: "I spilled the ink on myself! The ink I used for the cal-calligraphy on the invit...ations."
Numb and helpless, Soul strokes her hair, disregarding the sharp pressure of his hip bones pressing against the bathtub's edges. He should climb in beside her, but that would require defying the gravity uniting them.
"I ruined everything," she cries, ironing out the curve in her spine for him to survey the front of the bodice where the dye mars the intricate patterned lace and silk fabric underneath it. The perfectionist in Maka must have blown a fuse when this happened, and Soul inwardly berates himself for not being there to help calm her down.
"And when I was looking u-up how to… remove the stain, I, I got to thinking," she goes on lowly, fingers digging into his shoulders like she's desperate to ground herself. "I… couldn't do it."
"Couldn't do it," he echoes, an eerie composure possessing him.
"Mhm." The resolve in her glassy eyes hypnotizes. "I couldn't marry you."
It's surreal crouching here with a disheveled Maka at this illusory hour, listening to her list the reasons she didn't choose him. "Couldn't marry me…"
"I can't move away." She breaks into tears again, wincing, chin rumpling. "Can't move to LA with you. Not when my ma-mama is moving back home. I can't…"
"That's okay," he says, and it really is - she could leave him at the altar again and he would be grateful she even said yes.
"And I can't move my business from Death City, Soul. I'm scared."
Her business. Oh yeah - wedding planning had been her dream, and he had followed along because he advocates her happiness so much that he sometimes can't tell his ambitions apart from hers. His aspirations amounted to a dropping out a semester shy of completing his sound engineering degree and then accepting Wes's offer to hook him up with a buddy who would take Soul on as an apprentice. Uprooting her life so that he won't isolate himself in LA while trying his hand in the field reeks of selfishness. She had an anxiety attack over it while he sat and waited around.
"And I do love you," she says, tugging him closer by the hair. Their foreheads touch, and she rakes her nails through his scalp. "I don't want to hurt you. I… Because I love you. I don't want you to feel like you're stuck with me."
"Of course not, Maka." Protests surge into his brain with deadly force, like a receded tide returning in the aftermath of a hurricane. "You could never hold me back - you're my best friend. I want to be with you."
But Maka shakes her head, looking like she's torn and disappointed, brows knit. "No, Soul, I love you."
The sand stops him from saying it back. He wishes she didn't love him at all if it's going to hurt this much, but he takes it back, takes it back; he'd never trade any of her affection for anything less or more.
Maka's face breaks in front of him, his heart breaks, and so does the calm.
"Go to LA without me." She's hyperventilating now, telling him in choppy fragments to better himself and follow his dreams, face in the crook of his neck. "This was a... bad idea. I'm so sorry."
They cry together. There is an element of sadness at having reached an end. It's over, and the feeling of teetering off a edge lurks in the following weeks as he collects his things into his suitcases and rolls them to the airport on a Monday morning, a one way ticket in his hand.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.