Author's Note:
I do not own Soul Eater or Sabrina, the movie.
...
It begins with a postcard, held up by Soul.
"You got another one."
Maka's eyes flutter open and focus on the man above her. A piece of paper blocks him from her line of vision. She looks at it and sees a river at sunset, pyramids drawn in the distance. Against her darkened room, where she's been so long she can't even remember the last time she's looked out the window, it looks too colorful and exotic.
"Thanks," she mumbles and turns her head.
Soul doesn't do or say anything further and she pulls the covers away from herself, feeling suddenly hot and stifled with him in the room; she can practically feel his gaze. As she does, Maka hears a sharp intake of breath and sees Soul look away. She's confused for a second, before she remembers that she's not wearing her pajamas, just the same shirt she has for days, sans pants.
She covers herself quickly, hoping he hadn't seen too much. "Anything else?" she gets out between clenched teeth.
There is a pause long enough it makes Maka look back up. He's frowning down at her.
"You have to get up eventually. You're wearing that mattress thin."
"Shut up," she mumbles, rolling on her mattress.
His face is neutral, "You haven't eaten. We haven't practiced or resonated in weeks. That's not something you can just...ignore."
The exhaustion leaves her for a moment and she feels anger rise into her voice, "Why not?"
"Because we stop evil. Because we fight the bad guys, get souls…any of it sound familiar?" Soul's tone is monotone, sarcastic. His red eyes seem to be looking right through her.
She looks away, "I don't…care. I…"
"Like hell you don't. Maka…" his voice so low Maka had to strain to hear. He seems saddened by her demeanor. Well, that's his problem.
"…you are a god-damned idiot."
She is wrong. What she thought was mournfulness was actually anger and, upon closer inspection, she can practically feel it vibrating off him. Soul's eyes are red as flame, mouth pulled in an angry sneer. She wonders how wrapped up in her own thoughts she must have been not to have noticed…not to have felt it. After four years as weapon and meister it made her feel like crap—I thought she's quick not to dwell on.
"How long are you going to feel sorry for yourself?" he grits out. "She was gone long before she found herself a new husband and you're acting pathetic, pinning away for someone who doesn't give a shit.
Maka is suddenly on her feet, eyes electric and body rigid, "Say that again and…"
Soul is a step closer in a heartbeat, fury etched in his face, "She doesn't give a damn and you are wasting your time—your goddamned future and potential for nothing…"
Crack.
Soul is propelled backwards, hitting the dresser behind him, knocking over frames and pencils. He looks at her, touching his face where she'd punched him, "Hardly your best."
"Don't. Talk. About. Her."
His smile was ice, teeth pointy and mean, "Someone has to. You won't listen to anyone. Do you know how goddamned lucky you are?"
She narrows her eyes.
He scathes, "Your father worships the ground you walk on. He respects and supports you even when you treat him like shit. Sure he's been a dick in the past, but he's tried for years to get you to just be decent to him."
"Stop it!" Everything is bright—too bright—around her, the colors so intense she can't see straight through the anger. She wants to kill him. She lashes out again but, this time, Soul avoids her attack, stepping to the side and catching her fist.
Maka reaches to the left and hits him in his side, but he moves quickly, catching her arm again and holding it, "What, you can't stand to hear the truth?"
"Stop it!"
She is shrieking. Maka uses her leg to connect with Soul's abdomen, sending him to the ground in a flurry of white and red. She is on top of him in moments, fist connecting with his skull. "You don't know how it feels to have her gone—" her voice comes out in gasps, "You don't know—"
Before her fist can hit his face again, he makes his arm a scythe and holds it between them, against her throat, "I know that you don't appreciate anything! You're blind, Maka."
The vulnerable position, his words, the disgust in his face—all of it threaten to overwhelm her and she is motionless above him, paralyzed with feeling.
Soul turns his head, removing his blade. When he speaks again his voice holds more feeling that she's heard during their entire confrontation. "I would give anything," he shakes out, "to have what you have."
Somehow Maka finds herself lying on the floor after he pushes her off to get out of the room. In the silence she hears only the sound of footsteps, rustling…a door opening and slamming closed and then the apartment is empty. Next to her is the postcard he'd dropped, facedown, the scrawling cursive on its back very clear.
My dear Maka,
Henri has extended our honeymoon, the charmer, and Arnell is our tour guide! I can't wait for you to meet your new family. Thinking of you in the land of the Nile!
Love, Mom
Maka stays there, fist throbbing, thinking nothing until her brain can't stomach her cowardly self and she finally hears Soul's words, echoing loudly and without repose.
…
...
Soul doesn't come back that day or night.
She knows because she stays awake, her door open, and waits. It's not entirely intentional, but she's unable to sleep, perhaps because that's all she's been doing for weeks. Everything around her feels alien and Maka has to slowly come back to routines, feeling like a toddler learning to walk.
She begins by doing pushups, sit-ups, stretches—working her muscles until her arms and legs feel like her own again. She puts her clothes in the laundry, cleans her room…takes a shower. Afterwards, she combs her hair in the mirror slowly, repetitively, taking care to look at herself and grow accustomed to her own face again—her paler skin.
After dressing Maka begins reading. The books are her favorite on defense and soul resonance that she's picked up over the years. Maka skims the worn pages carefully and feels her brain slide back into the practice of study. She finds a doodle she did of two cartoon souls, vibrating, one smiling with jagged teeth and gives a small hum almost involuntarily. Soon she is lost in it: page 13—wavelengths, 20—resonating, 46—weapon handling. This is good. This she can do. Maka has never been happier to be a bookworm and she tries to push every thought of Soul out of her head.
When she hears the front door open a while later, however, her stomach, already in knots, twists even harder.
She stands in her doorway, one hand holding her forearm, watching Soul come in and spot her. Maka's mouth goes dry and she doesn't know what to say because, of course, she hasn't really thought of that, and she wants to kick herself for her lack of preparation. Though, to be fair, Maka hasn't thought of what to say to Soul in a very long time, having relied on their routines and resonating to do that.
This…this is all new.
Now, Soul looks tired, but the same as ever and, as it has been want to do for the last few years, her heart beats faster at his familiar pose (hands in pockets) and stance (slightly slumped), loose shirt that looks too wrinkled not to have been slept in. He watches her watch him.
They both seem to move at the same time and, noticing this, stop. The silence is thick and Maka opens her mouth, tongue heavy: "I'm sorry."
Again, there is an echo and they realize they're in sync, speaking at the same time. There is a long silence, neither of them sure where to begin.
"Soul resonance." Maka says it questioningly, quietly, almost afraid. She doesn't know if he'll understand why she wants to do it. Why she needs to bare herself in the most natural way she can think to do it. She's afraid that he won't understand. But Soul nods and closes his eyes and they merge in an easy breath.
Suddenly, Maka is connected to the world again and she feels and can see that he does as well because he looks troubled. Maka decides that she can't hold back and lets him know exactly what's she's been thinking. Her mother's betrayal, her feelings of inadequacy as a daughter, her guilt about their fight and becoming a dead weight of a roommate and meister, her pain at his words and at her mother and father… Everything.
The connection is intense and Maka can't seem to make herself stop it. She concentrates on Soul and finds his emotions confusing and conflicted: sadness, guilt, anger, affection and something she can't place. When she looks at his face, however, she can't find signs of any of it. Together, their wavelengths strike the same notes: apology, forgiveness, sadness.
When they stop, Maka feels like she's been dropped on the ground: distant and colder. She wonders if this is normal or if, as usual, she's becoming far too dependent on Soul, her feelings extending far beyond the weapon/meister relationship. Like always, she pushes all of this aside, concentrating on the present moment.
"Soul—"
"I know," he has a pained expression on his face that Maka doesn't know what to make of it.
"No, I need to tell you how sorry I am."
"I know, I…I don't need to hear it…it's the whole point of resonating."
His words make her feel worse and she walks up to him and takes his hand. He flinches and Maka feels like he slapped her. She pulls back and holds her hands in front of her, confused.
Soul sees her hurt and says, "I don't want you to feel bad about me attacking you."
"You didn't attack me," she defends.
"I did. I mean, I didn't punch you," he smiles slightly, making her blush with guilt, "but I was completely out of line. I was an asshole..."
"Soul, stop it," and her vehemence surprises both of them. "I let you down. I ignored you and the mission. So for however you acted…it was necessary."
Soul doesn' look like he believes her. He runs a hand through his white hair, eyes clearly still unsure, "Some friend I am, huh?"
He looks so sad and boyish that it makes Maka's heart hurt. She wraps her harms around him, trying to forget how he'd reacted when she'd touched his hand a moment earlier.
"You're a great friend, Soul and I love you." She's glad she's pressed against his shoulder because she would not be able to look him in the eye at that moment. Neither had ever said the words before, and certainly not regarding their platonic relationship.
To her surprise, Soul embraces her back, his face in her hair and Maka is glad she showered. It's as if sunshine is touching her skin—this is warm and too good to stop.
"I…er…do too," he mumbles and Maka closes her eyes and pretends, for just a second, that they're in love with each other and this could last: breathing in his shirt, feeling his fingers on her back. Soon, however, she lets go, knowing that those fantasies are more harmful to her in the long run.
She steps back, brushing a long strand of hair behind her ear. She watches his face and notes that he seems like his usual relaxed self and tries to dim her own fluttering nerves. "Have you eaten?" she asks.
"Eh…no. I'm starving though."
She grins, "I figured. Kario Chow's?"
Soul nods, "I just have to, you know, change and stuff."
"Oh," she says, "Of course. I'll take care of it. The usual?"
"Yeah," he says, giving her a pat on the shoulder and moving towards his room.
Maka watches his retreating figure, unable to shake the feeling that there was something crucial that she'd missed.
...
...
Soul can't sleep and, for a guy you would dice up anyone trying to get him up before noon, especially on a weekend, it is disconcerting.
He hits his pillow furiously, trying to get it comfortable, but the damned thing remains too misshapen to be any good. He throws it across the room and lays back on the mattress with his hands behind his head, staring at the slivers of moonlight the blinds cast on the ceiling.
There is a lump in his abdomen that Soul hasn't felt in a long time: shame. Though he had a generally laid back demeanor, being around Maka as much as he has been—especially lately—was wreaking havoc with his emotions.
And it isn't like he isn't used to her personality, as passionate and invested as it was, pushing and affecting him over the years. Hell, he barely recognizes himself sometimes with the amount he pays attention to people now—how much more tactful he is (though with Black Star and Kid as his competition in the "observant male" department, this isn't too difficult).
Still, the years have not been kind to Soul in the emotions arena, especially as his budding appreciation of Maka, the fighter, and Maka, the studious, and Maka, the friend, turned far more complicated and intense. Somewhere amongst their billionth victory against evil, Soul had found it impossible not to see his meister as a romantic interest, with all of the insane (and inane) problems that included. It meant uncomfortable discussions with Black Star about why he wasn't dating, it meant having to keep his eyes (and his words) to strictly platonic levels…it meant longer showers and hours in his room, though not always for thinking about her. Sometimes to precisely not.
And it was a hilarious bit of irony that their fighting partnership encouraged the co-habitation other couples would have in romantic relationships, sans the couple-y-ness. Living with a girl has very few upsides, in Soul's opinion, though he has to admit that Maka herself was probably the best fit for a roommate he would find. She liked the same food, kept the same hours, watched the same shows and Soul had found that their bantering was as natural to either of them as killing keisans.
Living together had formed into a practiced dance and it became too easy, sometimes, for the lines not to blur between meister and weapon. Sometimes he would mess with her hair and she would put her feet in his lap. Sometimes she would come into his room to listen to music in his bed and sometimes he would fall asleep with her on the couch after a long film, their hands touching. They would share food and laugh at bad movies and hit each other playfully and hug each other occasionally.
It had been this comradeship that had led Soul to that fateful moment in the first place, when he had forgotten himself and acted towards her the way he might, well, someone much closer to him.
When Maka got news about her mother's upcoming nuptials—the new husband and step-son she'd been living with—Soul had watched her spin into a self-destructive spiral. She became morose and secluded and nothing he or their friends said seemed to have any affect. Soul would hear her in her room playing sad songs and, eventually, she barely left it. After some weeks he grew desperate, unable to get her to eat a meal, much less talk to him. His sadness and feeling of helplessness did not mesh well with the type of guy Soul Eater was and so, when he walked in to give her that postcard (one of several that had come that month), he knew he had to do something. It was impossible, determined fighter and straight-forward guy that he was, not to—not after everything she'd done for him. Still, that show was spectacularly butchered and he couldn't forgive himself for not only turning on her in weapon form, but for talking to her the way he did. Revealing himself…
Soul sighs and sits up from the bed, unwilling to think about this any longer. Needing a distraction, he makes his was to the living room, intent on watching a movie to lull him into narcolepsy. As fate would have it, he finds Maka instead, sitting on the couch, knees tucked under her chin, face and hair washed pale blue from the TV. Maka looks up at him just as he's about to dart back to his room and her eyes hold him hostage, expectant and shining.
She gives him a weak smile and Soul remembers that just because she forgave him doesn't mean she's doing great. He walks in, wishing he'd bothered to put on a shirt but feeling that it would be strange to go back for it. He already feels strangely exposed.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Maka shakes her head, her pale hair moving slightly across her shoulders. She indicates next to her, silently gesturing for him to sit. He tries to move there casually but she seems very aware of him and since she'd been so distant for a while now, the attentions is unnerving.
Maka moves her legs down and Soul notices that she's still wearing a shirt and, though long, it just covers her when she sits. He forces his gaze to the television, "What are you watching?"
"Old movie," she mumbles. Her face is still turned towards him and Soul finally gives in and looks back.
"What?" he raises an eyebrow.
Maka pushes her hair behind her ear and moves towards him a little, her hands in her lap. She appears calm, except for the tale-tale sign of her fingers twisting against her thighs. She gives a sigh, "I…I never knew that you were jealous of my…relationship. With papa."
Soul wishes he was back in his room, unconscious. He doesn't know what to say to her and really, really doesn't want to be having this conversation. Still, she looks so plaintive and she bites her lip slightly and Soul can tell that this is difficult for her to ask.
He keeps his voice as neutral, "Yeah. Sometimes. Not that he's not a dickwad though."
Maka's mouth twitches slightly and she looks down, "True. But he's been there for me, recently. And we all do stupid things, sometimes."
He knows that she's not directing that at him, but can's seem to make his stomach believe it. He shrugs and leans back in the seat, "It's hard to remember that."
Soul feels a hand touch his arm and sees Maka's eyes, enormous and green, looking at him. "I'll try to work on that."
Silently they seem to make a deal: we won't bring this up again, if neither of them want to.
Maka gives him a smile that makes his heart stuble, before turning back to the movie, leaning slightly against him. "I think this is Sabrina," she says, "You're not too far in if you wanna watch it."
"Yeah, sure," Soul says, moving his face into a façade of practiced detachment.
They hold hands the entire time.
…
...
From then on, everything is different, so slightly that it almost surprises Maka when she finds herself waiting for him to come home from his part-time job, or joins him for the nightly movie watching sessions, almost all spent (with increasing frequency) not watching but chatting or joking. She finds it harder to concentrate on her own work, preparation for teaching defense, and their practices, while productive, have an edge afterwards that she finds hard to ignore.
The tension is something Maka explains away as her own attraction to Soul—an attraction it has taken her as long to admit to herself as it did to Tsubaki, who merely looks at her with a knowing smile before promising to keep the information to herself. She certainly thinks she's alone in this feeling as, after every time they're sweaty and exhausted from practicing battles, he barely acknowledges her, though they're closer in almost all other respects.
After one such day of grueling practice that ends with them doing hand-to-hand combat to each keep it sharp, she notices Soul looking at her intently. She wipes sweat from her forehead and straightens her skirt, giving him a grin and he…scowls. Her eyes widen in surprise and, before she can say anything, he's walking ahead of her.
Not knowing what to make of, Maka keeps it to herself for a few days before, finally, her naturally curiosity can't take it anymore.
Looking away from an old comedy clip show they'd been watching that night, she turns to Soul expectantly, "Why are you weird towards me after we train?"
The silence is so severe Maka swears that the volume on the television must have been turned down. Maka watches Soul's jaw tick but he makes no other motion to indicate that he's heard her. The show keeps playing.
Just when Maka is sure she should either repeat herself or completely drop it, she hears him mutter something.
She furrows her eyebrows, "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said it's nothing."
His words are really rushed and gravely, and Maka is taken aback for a moment. Still, this did not inspire confidence in making her think that there is something going on.
"Soul," she tries again, touching his arm, "Really, you can tell me. I swear."
Soul glances at her before looking at the screen, "Really, just drop it, Maka."
Something stirs in her chest, and Maka realizes it is annoyance. It emboldens her. "Seriously, Soul. Did I do something wrong?"
Soul seems to give out a low growl when he looks at her, "Yeah…y…your starting pose sucks. So do your punches."
"What?"
The red-eyed weapon smirks, "You really need to work on that. You're gonna get us both killed."
There is something very grating in his tone and Maka finds herself irrationally irked. She hits him in his forearm and he just laughs, making her angrier.
"See…see what I mean?" he gasps out and Maka flushes. Not used to being teased like this about something she is damn good at, she starts fighting harder, while Soul evads most of her hits.
She moves—leaping on him and striking his chest from above. "Take it back, Soul!"
He grins his sharp grin, grabbing her hands and maneuvering her off him. She moves her hands away but he is suddenly above her, holding her wrists down by her head. "Take it easy," he smirks, "I didn't mean anything by it."
She puffs out a breath, ignoring the frantic beating of her heart at his proximity—his position on top of her, "What are you playing at with those comments?" She glares at him, though her voice falters, "Why…what's going on?"
Soul lookes at her and Maka can see that he is extremely uncomfortable, though he works his face to look blank. For some reason, she needs to know the truth. "Please, Soul?"
Something flickers in his deep eyes and they move over her face before he seems to realize the position they are both in. He springs away from her instantly, leaning back into the couch cushions and avoiding her gaze. He sighs audibly and gives her a grimace, "You're making this really…difficult."
Maka feels slightly guilty and wonders why she is pushing this. She opens her mouth just as he finally speaks:
"I…your skirt's pretty short. And…it's hard not to notice when you…kick."
Maka looks at him, her mouth open and she swears that his face is as red as nuclear tomato (a combination that seems funnier than the conversation at hand). Her own brain can't seem to comprehend his words. "My…skirt?" her voice falters, squeaking at the end of the word.
"God, I'm such an asshole," Soul says, getting up and shoving his hands in his pockets, "I…I really. Just forget about it, okay?" There is a pleading quality in his voice that makes Maka feel even worse for having brought all of this up. My skirt?
She finds herself nodding absentmindedly at his request.
Soul grunts, stands up, and turns back to his room, hands still in pockets, when everything finally clicks in Maka's head. Oh. Her skirt. He acted weird because he saw... And he noticed her…physically. And it made him…distant. Because…Why?
"Why?"
The words are out of her mouth before she can call them back. She hopes that, somehow, he hasn't heard her but, looking at Soul's still form in the doorway, she knows that isn't the case. He turns back to her, his expression inscrutable, head slightly tilted.
Maka looks around, panicked, but can't find anything to distract (or hit) herself with. His eyes are intense as he comes closer, "Why what?"
Maka tries to call up some of that bravery she is known for, "Er…" Great. I'm a regular poet. She lets the words out in a rush, "Why are you noticing…now…?"
"Maka…"
"Because you've been around me for a long time, right? And you haven't…"
"Maka…"
"...needed to leave. And why would you just…scowl? How does that work…?"
"Maka."
The frantic girl notices that Soul has been moving ever closer to her and she thinks that she might need to stand up now and go close herself off in her room. She makes it to the first part and then notices how near he is. "Yes," she whispers, forgetting to make it a question.
"You can be really slow sometimes."
The words are a much kinder version of what he said to her during their fight. She swallows and unconsciously licks her lips. She's suddenly aware that this behavior is not like her and, really, it's annoying when he says crap like that.
She gives him a brave smile, "I'm glad I'm not the only one."
It's Soul's turn to look confused, eyebrows furrowed, "What?"
Maka crosses her arms, pigtails tilted and mouth amused, "To be sexually frustrated after practice."
They look at each other, grinning, and Maka realizes that this should be much more awkward than it is. She wonders if part of it has to do with the equal playing field of the situation, and she thinks that it's that what really makes them well, them. Knowing about each other—no one having the upper hand.
Her look turns more sober, "You really can tell me things. I meant what I said."
Soul's face softens, "I know. Thanks."
Maka nods, tugging at his arm, "Say it back."
His teeth are out in an instant, "I don't think I need to."
That night, Maka dreams about having sex with Soul for the first, their eyes open, neither able to look away.
…
…to be continued.
Author's Note:
This is my first SoMa, and I hope this served its purpose and was enjoyable. Please review and let me know what you think and if you want me to continue! No bribes, just curiosity!
love, Dear HDL