About Today
Though his eyes follow her when she leaves, his butt remains firmly in his seat. She's clearly lacking her usual ebullience as she trudges down the stairs of the lecture hall, soft green eyes dark and troubled and steps uncharacteristically heavy. Even her pigtails look limp and lifeless to his eyes. Such minor details have been overlooked by the others, friends and teachers alike, but he knows her much too well. She's been strangely detached all morning.
When they notice that Maka is halfway out the door and Soul hasn't even stood up yet, their friends raise their eyebrows at him, curious but not yet concerned. He studiously ignores them, packing up his things in silence. They exchange playful banter over his head as usual, gathering their own books and bags and shuffling towards the exit in turn. He allows several long minutes to pass before he drifts out of the classroom after them. She hasn't waited for him.
At lunch, her friends stream into the cafeteria, giggling and chattering brightly, but Maka isn't with them. In fact, she's nowhere in sight. Soul tells himself that he isn't hungry, and leaves before anyone has even noticed him hovering near the open doors. Although he isn't looking for her, exactly, he finds himself prowling though the halls, passing and re-passing all of her favorite haunts: the stairs that lead to the roof of the western turret, the empty classroom she sometimes studies in, the library. On later reflection, he'll wonder why he's so surprised when he finds her.
She's standing alone in front of the library, with her hand resting on the handle of the door. Her other arm clutches a book to her chest, and her eyes are downcast, hidden from view by her pale blonde bangs. Something about the defeated slope of her delicate shoulders squeezes the air out of Soul's lungs, and for one fleeting moment, he wonders exactly how long she's been standing there, frozen. The sound of his footsteps rouses her, and their eyes meet and lock for the space of a heartbeat. Hers are empty and distant. Cold. Maka breaks their gaze first, closing her eyes as she starts to turn, slipping away from him so easily. Soul opens his mouth just a second too late. She vanishes into the library in a swish of plaid skirt and blonde pigtails, and all the unspoken words die on his lips as the door thuds closed behind her. Soul doesn't know what he would have said, anyway, and slowly turns around again.
After school, she leaves without him, waving goodbye to her friends with a superficial smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Soul, perched in her usual place on the rooftop, just watches her go. And he knows that she isn't going home yet, because she's walking in the wrong direction.
It's meaningless to stay up here on the roof without her, but Soul's not sure if the can handle the hollow feeling that their apartment always has when she's not in it. Plus, he hates riding home alone. The space behind him on his motorcycle has become the space where she is supposed to be, and he doesn't even remember when this happened. At what exact moment had his awesome, cool-guy, chick-magnet motorcycle morphed into a just another mode of transportation which he's uncomfortable riding alone? It just feels off, somehow, without her there. Weaving much too fast through sluggish lines of traffic, the wind stinging his cheeks and making his eyes water—it feels wrong, all of it, unless her thin arms are clasped around his waist; unless her warmth is radiating through his back.
So he leaves the ugly orange bike behind, and wanders aimlessly around the city for hours, taking backstreets and alleys, and letting his thoughts wander with him.
Despite his best efforts, Maka's still not home when he finally arrives. In fact, it's very late when he hears her key in the lock, and Soul feigns sleep on the couch where he's been waiting more or less patiently. Although he's certain that she sees him lying there, Maka doesn't even slow down as she passes. She doesn't shake him roughly awake or slam her things on the ground to get his attention, nor does she throw something at him and demand that he go to bed, promising that he'll wake up with a stiff neck and an aching back unless he listens. She's far too quiet, too ruthlessly considerate to make any noise that might disturb him. Passionless, aloof, she pads away down the hall without rousing him. Soul bites his tongue so hard that he draws blood. The sharp, bitter taste doesn't quite distract him from the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be.
He sits perfectly still, his head in his hands, and listens to the water rushing through the old pipes. The metal rings that hold up the shower curtain shriek against the ancient chrome curtain rod, and then there's only the faint sound of water splashing on the fiberglass bottom of the tub. After a few moments, the water stops and the rings shriek in protest once again. Then it's quiet. The walls are thin, but not quite thin enough for his ears to catch the whisper of terrycloth over damp skin or the hiss of a brush through soft, fine hair. A cloud of steam wafts down the hall from the bathroom. Alone in the darkness, Soul breathes in the familiar scent of lavender soap. Her bedroom door has already closed behind her by the time he reaches it.
He knocks, softly, and gently turns the doorknob at the same time. He's not expecting an answer, really, and it turns out that her door isn't locked. So he lets it swing open while he fumbles with the light switch in the hallway. The widening stream of light spilling into her room doesn't illuminate her bed, and yet he knows that she's watching him from the shadows.
"Hey...are you awake?" He probably doesn't know how pretty he looks standing in her doorway with the only source of light behind him: a sharp black silhouette with a silvery halo.
"Yeah, I'm right here," she says, wearily. It's the first time he has heard her voice all day. The silence between them is a heavy, tangible thing, and he can almost feel it reaching for him, little black tendrils slipping around his neck, squeezing his throat, stopping his voice. He tastes his own blood again, and forces himself to continue.
"Well, can I ask you...about today?" Soul's hands are trembling, and he knows he can't take another whole day like this one. He plunges ahead before he loses his nerve. "How close am I to losing you?" he chokes out at last.
There is another beat of that painful silence, and the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. The seconds tick by, and still she doesn't answer. Finally, Soul turns away, pulling the door shut behind him as he leaves her room.
There is a sharp inhalation of breath from the darkness behind him, the rustling of bedclothes. The next thing he knows, her arms are locked around his ribcage from behind, gripping so tightly he is sure there will be bruises in the morning. But he welcomes the pain, and gently places his hands over hers, preventing her from releasing her vise-like grip. Hot tears run down his face unchecked, and he relishes the persistent heartbeat thundering against his as her warmth radiates through his back.
A.N. So, I guess this is a kinda-sorta songfic. At least, this little one-shot was heavily inspired by the song AboutToday by a lovely group called The National, neither of which I own - although my birthday is coming up if anyone needs gift ideas ;) Anyway, while I did borrow a phrase or two (which you may not notice unless you are familiar with the song) I'll never list out the lyrics of a song in between paragraphs of my own making, because I personally find that incredibly distracting to read.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and feedback is very much appreciated, whether you liked it or hated it!