PART 2
SOUL

.

Stage fright is nothing new.

Performing in front of a crowd has never been easy for him. Growing up in the shadow of a talented, perfect older brother was never a walk in the park, per say, but it's the constant reminder that he'll never be good enough and is destined to fuck up that really does him in, and the fear of doing so in the spotlight is just the icing on the cake. It's irrational. He's been playing piano almost as long as he's been able to walk and if there's one damn thing he can get right, it's shitty covers of 90's Alternative songs, and yet every time he steps on stage the age-old anxieties come creeping back up his throat.

It's getting old. He's not the same scared 12 year old, crying over his piano at recitals anymore. He's a grown ass man with a grown ass backbone. He's not alone on the stage anymore; he has a band backing him - has Blake on drums, for fuck's sake, the most boisterous and attention-grabbing person he knows to distract the crowd.

There's an ocean of bar goers staring him down and he kind of wants to melt into the background. But it's fine. It's going to be fine. He's not a vocalist, he's just subtle accompaniment. Most people don't even notice the piano unless it's featured in a song anyway. Deep breaths. In and out. It's fine. He does this every damn night.

Green eyes stand out like headlights in the crowd. Big green eyes. Maka.

How anyone so tiny can still hold such a large presence is beyond him, but time and time again she proves herself more than just noteworthy. Even in high school pep rallies, she still found a way to stand out, be it painting her face school colors or wrestling her way onto Tsubaki's shoulders to cheer and scream. Maybe it's the way she holds herself, shoulders back and spine ramrod straight, the picture of perfect posture, that demands attention, but he thinks it's more her eyes than anything else, so wide and vast in dizzying shades of bright green.

Or, he thinks with a smile, it's the way she waves so hard at him that she nearly takes someone's eye out that really grabs attention. She smiles brilliantly, shifting her waving hands into a twin thumbs up as she bounces on her toes.

"You can do it," she mouths. Nodding numbly, he finds that he believes her.

From behind him, Blake claps the hi-hat and coos. "Looks like someone brought the girlfriend along for moral support."

Soul snorts. "Don't let Maka hear you calling her that."

"What, your girlfriend?" Blake cackles. "Isn't that what she is?"

Not quite, Soul thinks. That's not really the right word for her. To be honest, he's never been able to find the right word to describe what she is to him. Best friend feels like it's not enough. Girlfriend is wrong, because they don't spend their time trying to stick their tongues down the other's throat. They're not married, so she's not his wife, and she's not merely his roommate, either. She's something more important. Something permanent, a presence practically tattooed on his soul.

His stomach aches. Damn milk. Maka's always right.

"Leave him alone," Jackie scolds. Soul shoots her a glance, right as she's tuning her bass, and tries to look as unaffected by Blake's teasing as possible. She meets his eye with a dry raise of her brow and shakes her head. "It's none of our business."

He finds himself grunting in agreement.

Conversation dies down as Kim approaches the mic, and like every other night, his nerves settle into his stomach and his fingers feel heavy, like they're swollen with errors, and Soul focuses on breathing deeply instead of the uproar of catcalls at their singer's choice of stagewear. He knows for a fact that Blake is not unaffected by the sight of Kim Diehl's ass swaddled in tight denim, nor is Jackie, but her curves don't silence the lurking anxiety dwelling within him any, so he looks back out to the crowd and locks onto Maka again.

Unsurprisingly, she's shooting leering men dirty looks and elbowing her way to the front of the group to better guard Kim from grabby hands and general piggish nature, like she's an unofficial bodyguard or something, wearing a tight black dress and kitty earrings. He can't help it; he breaks out into a wide smile, unable to keep himself from chortling at the sight of Maka Albarn, ready to crack a skull if it means their set goes on without a hitch (or another wolf whistle).

The music comes easily after that.

.

There might be nothing funnier in the world than a tipsy Maka trying to dance.

Not that she can dance very well sober, of course. Maka's notorious for moving to her own rhythm, often bobbing around and shifting her slim hips to beats that don't actually exist, but she has fun while doing it and it's impossible not to smile or laugh at her antics. After a few drinks, though, it's even funnier, because her coordination has been further impaired and her ordinary cutthroat bravery is exaggerated. She doesn't care what anyone thinks, doesn't care that she looks like a drowning fish, she'll bop around and wiggle her skinny legs and pretend she has an ass to shake because the music demands it of her, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't please him.

Because okay, maybe she does have an ass to shake, but mostly because music has never been Maka's strong point and watching herself surrender to it, even while impaired, is a sight for sore eyes. She's also an affectionate drunk, judging by the way she shimmies over to him and tangles her arms around his neck.

"Having fun?" he asks, bemused, as he sets his cup of water down.

Maka nods vigorously. Her hands snake around him and she pulls herself flush against his chest, wobbling lazily as she props her chin on his collarbone and stares at him. "Dance with me?"

"Gonna have to take a rain check."

"Pleaaaase?"

The only thing worse than putting his music out there for the world to see (and judge) is putting his lanky awkward body on the dance floor. Sure, he has a few ballroom dance classes under his belt, which is more than Maka can say, but there's a distinct lack of boundless courage in his bones, which means she has him beat. And if it's possible to look more ridiculous than Maka just had out in the middle of the bar with her hands up in the air, he doesn't want to see it. Or be a part of it.

He decides to set his hands on her hips instead. To settle her damn engine, he tells himself, because even as she's dead weight against him and blinking sleepily at him, her hips are still working and her legs still bouncing. Such a wiggle worm. He steers very clear of aforementioned shakable ass, because he's her friend Soul, not her boyfriend/lover/sex buddy Soul, and doubts that under any circumstance would she want him to accidentally cop a feel, even if the fabric of her dress is stretchy and makes her hips look fantastic. Her body is not his to grab and hold. He has a very special role to play as the sober half, and that's to make sure she has a good time without having to worry about anything else but whether or not she's gotta pee.

Besides, they're not really like that. They've never been like that, no matter how pretty Maka's eyelashes are or how the color of her cheeks makes him think of rose petals or cheesy things like that. She's not Maka the slampiece or Maka the walking mile-long legs. She's Maka, the best friend, the roommate, the one who fixes the faucet when he inevitably accidentally breaks it.

It's the least he can do to make sure she has a good time. She works so damn hard. Finding time to unwind has never been her strong point; if it was up to her, she'd work herself to the bone. Her ambition is something to be admired, but it's her drive and determination that have him concerned. Maka never knows when to quit it.

The hands on her hips do nothing to quell the boogie machine in his arms. "It'll be fuuuun!" she wagers.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"Eeeeh," she moans, squirming in his grasp. Her hips bop offbeat. He does his best to settle her into the rhythm, leading her left and right, back and forth. "A few."

"I think it's been more than a few, Maka."

"Shhhh."

"Your breath smells like rum."

"Moooom," she whines.

Her hips are bobbing in his hands. It's distracting, but at least she's finally getting the hang of dancing. He wonders if she realizes they're technically kind of dancing now, because he's leading and she's following, but her rum-buzzed brain is too focused on trying to set her finger on his lips while she shushes him to really notice.

He winces when she tries again and spits on his cheek. Gross. "Say it, don't spray it."

"Neeeeh, but dance!" she whines. "You never dance with me. You know you're a good dancer, Soul."

Her eyeliner is smudged. He stares at the smeared tip of a wing like one might a formidable foe. "Blake's here," he says, and she blinks up at him again, as if just realizing that the drummer of her roommate's band might be at the bar with the rest of the band, lurking somewhere in the shadows.

"Where?" she asks.

"I think I saw him doing shots with Kim."

Maka's cheek sets against his collarbone instead. "Ooooh."

They're definitely dancing now. There's no way she doesn't notice. Classic rock blasts from the speakers and he's effectively swaying with her in his arms, hands still leading her hips to match the song beat by beat. It's a slower tempo, something easier for her to fall into, and her arms tighten around his neck.

"I think I like this song," she notes quietly.

"Everyone likes Journey, Maka."

"I think Papa used to play this while he did the dishes," she continues, voice barely a whisper over the lingering guitar. "He'd spin Mama around and flick water at her and tell her to loosen up."

He can picture it, Spirit's red hair bright in the afternoon light, the infamous Mama Albarn hissing curses as her (ex)husband twirls her around the kitchen. "You must've been ten. How do you still remember it?"

There's a long pause in conversation. For a moment, he's afraid she's fallen asleep, because she's starting to get that jelly-legged toddler thing going on that she alway does when she's had too much to drink and doesn't want to use her knees anymore. Just when he's about to nudge her to check, though, she squirms against him and buries her face in the warm, worn cotton of his shirt. "They were happy," she mumbles.

He kisses the crown of her hair because he doesn't know what else to do and it seems right. She breathes heavily through her nose. "Song's almost over," he says, lips still buried in strands of ashy gold.

"That's okay," she muffles against his shirt. Her lips move against the space where his heart beats and something within him thaws. There's an empty space waiting to be filled. "I still like it. I'm happy."

"Yeah?" his voice cracks.

"Mhmmm," Maka hums. "You make me happy. You're my favorite."

"Even if I don't dance with you?"

"You are. You always do. Because you're nice."

It's not because he's nice. He's never been nice, not really, but her explanation helps him bury things that he's not comfortable digging up yet so he lets her have it. Without a doubt in his mind, he knows he'd do anything to make her happy and to remain her favorite, and it almost scares him a little that he doesn't know what that means. But he can't say he hates it, not while Maka's leaning against him and warm like home, whispering quiet affection and letting him lead, a rare feat in itself.

He props his chin atop her head and lets her lower her arms to circle around his back, tucked safely beneath his arms. His hands raise too, and then they're hugging, swaying leisurely, as the song ends and another begins, and just like that, the moment is gone and Soul's swallowing to fill the void left behind.

"Wanna head home?" he finds himself asking.

Maka shakes her head and he knows for a fact her eyeliner is even more smudged than before. Sure enough, she peeks up at him with racoon eyes and he vows to buy her a better liquid eyeliner pen.

Who's he kidding - it's not like she'll use it, anyway. He'll buy the damn thing for himself and use it on her for her. At least his scene phase was beneficial somehow; he might have to suffer through Maka clicking her way through his old myspace page, but he's emerged with a steady hand and a particular talent for making eyes pop.

Not that hers need it. She blinks and he's blinded by green starlight. "Time?"

"Bedtime," he answers. "C'mon, I have your phone in my pocket."

.

Sharing a bed really isn't all it's cut out to be. Yeah, the nightmares and stress dreams are significantly less when Maka's legs are tangled up with his, but she steals all the blankets and buries herself in his pillows when he tries to take some of the covers back. Romcoms are dirty rotten liars and bed sharing isn't as romantic as his teenage self had been lead to believe, especially when one party is hungover and groans like the dead when the sun begins to peek through his heavy curtains.

"Nooooo," Maka whines when the phone in his jeans pocket begins to rumble with life. "The power of Christ compels you."

Soul snorts, staring up at the ceiling with only one leg tucked beneath his blankets. "You're an atheist."

"Make it stooooop."

She's lucky she's so cute. Soul groans, rolling himself over the lump of blonde that's taken purchase in the center of his queen bed to tumble onto the floor. It's her phone ringing, he discovers as he fishes around in his jeans pocket, kicking them back aside once he's got it in his hand. One look over his shoulder tells him she's in no form to answer it herself (her face is back buried beneath his neck pillow) so he takes it upon himself to take the call.

But only once he's pulled himself off the floor and made his way into the hall. No reason to further anger the sleeping beast in his bed. It's probably best to let her rest, since he's definitely not going to be getting any of those pillows back anytime soon. Might as well lounge on the couch.

He swipes the screen and brings the phone to his ear. "Albarn's phone, Evans speaking."

Liz Thompson almost sounds smug. "Good morning, sunshine."

Soul grinds the heel of his palm over his eyes sleepily. "Ugh, hey, Liz."

"I take it she had a nice time last night? It's not every day you answer her phone before she gets the chance."

"Hungover. Stole the bed."

Her laughter is almost enough to rouse him from his place (slumped on the couch) to search for something to eat in the kitchen. Almost. "Such a lightweight, that Maka. Didn't you give her any water before bed?"

"She was out like a light before we even made it into bed," he says, yawning. "So to answer your next question, no, we didn't fool around."

"No peekaboo?" Liz teases.

"Not even a little bit. Drunk girls aren't really my type."

"Good guy Soul. Cute," she nudges, but he knows that without a doubt if he had answered anything else, she'd be on her way before the phone call even ended. Which is fine; personally, he'd rather have no one else fill the role of Maka's best friend than one Liz Thompson, born and raised in Brooklyn, she who takes no shit when it comes to consent. "Anyway, could you tell her I called? Patty's coming to visit soon and I had some things I wanted to talk to her about."

"Yeah," he grunts. "Sure. Whatever."

"So talkative in the morning."

"Shut up. I haven't had coffee yet. It's before noon."

"Make sure you get Maka some water and ibuprofen before she rips your head off for existing. She's nasty when she's hungover."

Doesn't he know it. Finally, he yanks himself off of the couch and slouches his way into the kitchen, trying hard to make as little noise as possible as he rattles around the cupboards for any signs of caffeine. Ah, there's the coffee. Shit, and he's still got to make hot water happen. His bones ache and his eyes are drooping and fuuuck, he's still gotta take his meds before Maka sleepily scolds him for skipping out just because she's not there to hold his hand, which means he should probably make food happen pretty soon, too.

Being the first one awake is so much work. Too much work for anyone on so few hours of sleep.

He grunts again into the phone. Liz laughs. "Just tell her I called, Soul. Don't hurt yourself trying to talk."

"Fuck you."

She laughs again and hangs up. Soul slides the phone onto the counter and wonders why she's so alert before noon o'clock. If there's anyone who understands his love of sleep and hiding in bed well after the sun has come up, it's Liz; Patty's visit must have her jittery or something. Not that it's his problem - but he's sure he'll hear all about it from Maka (and probably Kid, the newly christened husband) in a few days or so, give or take.

Husband. It's still so weird to think about. It'd seemed so farfetched, like a fun fantasy when Kid had come to him to talk about maybe helping him pick out a ring for Liz, but now it's a very legit reality that he kind of had a hard time wrapping his brain around. Marriage is no longer a far-off thing to consider; it's a very real possibility, something that could be considered a now instead of a future, and he can't decide how to feel about it.

Because it's not like he's ever really had a steady girlfriend or a lasting relationship. The closest he's had would probably be Maka, who was more his protector in elementary school and sister in high school than anything else. Sure, there had been moments where he thought it might be something a little more - prom, perhaps - but nothing had ever come from it. For the most part, he wasn't even sure if love was a thing he did. That kind of love, anyway.

Now, though… well, she still isn't his girlfriend, not really. Maybe a bit like a wife, because they live together and cook together and fight a bit like they're married on the more stressful days, but he's never really entertained the thought of actual matrimony. In fact, he's not really sure what comes next for him. In his teen years, he didn't know if he would make it to 23, and now here he is, sleepily scrambling eggs for his hung-over roomie while waiting for the coffee to be ready, the corresponding day of the weekly pill organizer popped open.

Is marriage in his future? Is marriage in his now? Is he a marriage kind of guy?

He should probably be more disturbed that thoughts of tying the knot always come with fleeting, fuzzy images of Maka in white. He's not.

Soul scrambles the eggs more aggressively. Dammit, he can't stop thinking about it now. Maka had sounded so defeated when she asked him to go with her to the damned reunion because she was still single. Maka's never given a shit about being single before. In all honesty, he was sure that she preferred it. Why else would she never date? It's not like her parents set a great example for her either. All signs pointed to Maka, single and successful and doing her own thing forever.

Maybe she wants to get married someday. Maybe she wants to have kids.

He burns himself on the frying pan thinking about that one.

.

Once she's got about a gallon of water in her and a healthy dose of pain meds, Maka's much more agreeable. She sleeps the better part of the day away and rolls out of bed to order takeout with him - thankfully, only once he's silenced haunting thoughts of his best friend sporting a cute baby bump and a glittering ring on her finger - with a sleepy smile.

He tries hard not to stare. God, what is wrong with him? It's just Maka. The same Maka that studied her ass off to be Valedictorian of their graduating class and helped him work up the nerve to talk to someone about his depression and anxiety.

The same Maka whose hips had been in his hands last night. Goddammit. The last thing she needs in her life is another guy who thinks with his dick. Her gross dad is enough for several lifetimes. Soul dials it back to 0 and locks that shit down deep. He's gotta, especially since Maka's taken to using his lap as a pillow and her face anywhere near a rowdy penis is destined to be a bad time.

He's really not nice. His penis, especially, is Not Nice, and definitely belongs in time out for harboring improper thoughts.

Maka steals from his plate of fries and he takes a big bite out of her burger, just to normalize things between them. Cuddling is not supposed to be weird. They've been doing it for years. Stupid Kid. Stupid wedding, disrupting the natural order of things.

Most of all, stupid high school reunion for bringing all of this to the forefront.

"Liz called," he says pointedly. "Says she wants you to call her back. Something about Patty coming to visit?"

Maka yawns and snuggles her cheek against his sweatpant-clad thigh. "I'll get to it in a bit," she mumbles, eyes lazily watching the TV flash. They're watching it on mute with subtitles because she's still sensitive to noise and he feels a little guilty for letting her drink enough to get hungover anyway. There's a distracting urge to run his fingers through her hair, but they're greasy from fried food and it's probably a bad idea, all things considered, so he elects not to follow said urge and instead just stuffs his bacon burger into his mouth.

Still, though, it's probably in his best interest to push the subject. "Sounded important. She mentioned it twice."

"Patty's always important to her."

The muted flashing of the tv screen casts shadows on her face. It almost washes out the smudged makeup around her eyes as she lazily nibbles the tip of a fry. His fry.

He takes pity on her because she's hungover and it's kinda-sorta his fault and surrenders the rest of his fries to her. Maka makes an appreciative hum and holds the paper plate closer to her heart, cradling it to her chest as she picks at the contents sleepily. For the moment, it seems that everything is right in her world, with Hoarders on mute and a plate full of potatoes in her grasp, and he smiles at how easy everything is.

Licking his fingers clean, he asks, "When're you going to call her back?"

"Soon?"

"You know she's not very patient."

"But," she whines, rolling onto her back to better pout at him, "Hoarders."

He can't stifle the smile that splits his face. "They'll still be hoarding when you get back, promise."

Her expression sours adorably. Much like a mother, he uses his damp finger to wipe away the smudged remnants of her eyeliner, passing along the tender skin under her eye with gentle precision. She hisses, swatting at his hand. "Dooon't. Ew, Soul!"

"Your fault for not washing your face before you fell asleep. I bet it's all over my pillowcases, too. Like a war zone."

"This isn't an eyeliner war zone. I've seen pictures from your scene phase."

Sputtering is very not cool. He's doing it anyway. Maka smiles wide, like the smug little demon she is, and he chuffs and flicks her nose, absolutely not pouting. "You're one to talk, miss braceface."

Her growl sounds like a miffed kitten caught in a blanket. "It was only for a year!"

And what a glorious year it was. Was he petty for devouring popcorn in front of her just because he knew she couldn't partake too? Yep. Did he regret it? Not really.

...A little. Not enough to refrain from arming himself with whatever dirt he has to battle her knowledge of his infamous scene phase.

In their early years, it was comforting for him to find a chink in her armor. Pre-Albarn split, Maka had been the picture of ideal student, ideal child, soft blonde hair tied in neat pigtails, waving happily as her Papa smooched her cheek and dropped her off for school. There'd been a part of him - however miniscule - that resented her a bit for having such doting, adoring parents. It wasn't until the divorce that he really felt like he knew her, because suddenly there was something in common, a connection - and he finally felt like he could contribute to the friendship, moreso than just relying on her uppercut to ward off his bullies. They were lonely together, confused and young and angry, and fell into what would end up a lifelong friendship before they were really old enough to know what it meant.

He drops her phone on her lap. "Just text her, smartass."

Maka squints at her phone and immediately dials the brightness back to a more reasonable level. She chews her lip as she types and it's distracting (Soul makes a mental note to sip some lip balm in her purse), enough so that he doesn't creep on her conversation and read the message she sends out to Liz.

The phone buzzes to life within minutes. Maka blinks drowsily and swipes the screen. He thinks she's distracted too, so he runs his fingers through her hair, but she purses her lip and murmurs, "Did you remember to take your meds?" even as he's fiddling with her split ends.

He sorts of wishes she wasn't always so perceptive, even while mildly hungover and dosed up on ibuprofen. "Yes, mom."

"You promise?"

It's for his health, he knows that, but he still grunts as she nags and pushes her bangs from her eyes. "Took them with breakfast."

She flickers a glance at him. Even hazy with fatigue, she's still brighter than anything else. Dammit, green is a cool color, it should not burn him alive. "Proud of you."

Heat swamps him and he can only hope that the color in his cheeks is minimal at best.

Judging by the tiny smile that curls her lips, it's not. Fuck. Soul feels a lot like a dog (he's a good boy!) for being so pleased by her reaction. He does not pant and does not wag his imaginary tail at her. He is not man's best friend.

He's just Soul, mildly depressed and anxious to the nth degree, and Maka just happens to know better than anyone else what his demons do to him, so he steels his stomach against the tupid pleased fluttering and says, "Yeah, thanks," and watches her nod, that quiet smile still in place. It warms him like afternoon sunshine. "How's Liz?"

"Excited to show Patty around the new house. Nervous about the reunion, like you," Maka says, switching effortlessly to another app. "Did you check my cats for me?"

"I am but a humble servant."

Her hand pats his cheek and she murmurs her thanks. A pleased, validated hum roars to life in the center of his chest. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

(He's a good boy, fuckitall).

.

Dean Mortimer Jr. (or Kid, for short) excuses himself before entering the next day, carefully balancing a tray of cookies on one hand and holding his wife's with the other as he politely nudges the front door shut with a slim hip. He's dressed immaculately for a night of board games and wine, smart button up done to nearly the top button and sleeves cuffed at the elbows, slacks pressed with crisp pleats down the middle. Even his hair is done nicely, styled carefully so that it remains even on both sides. Meanwhile, on his left, Liz is dressed down, high waisted jeans and sandals, long blonde hair pulled up into an effortless bun, face bare sans a coat of mascara.

He wonders if it's what he and Maka look like in reverse. Maka in her smart sweaters and neat hair, he and his leather jacket and purposefully tousled mess.

He cuts the thought short because Kid and Liz are married and paralleling it leaves messy connotations. Soul takes the cookies instead, grinning wolfishly when he stuffs one in his mouth and Liz clicks her tongue.

"I called first dibs," she sighs dramatically, snatching one from the pile and munching eagerly. "Maka's got the drinks?"

"Yeah. She might need help reaching the glasses, though."

Liz goes to assist, but Kid's already beat her to the punch, scooting by with a quiet "excuse me" as he makes his way into the kitchen, skirting by the edge of the counter with ease. All things considered, Soul probably could've reached the glasses easily (especially considering he's the one that put them there) but he's got a platter full of baked sweets now and sue him for being distracted. They're wonderful and Kid is meticulous with his baking and it shows.

"Those have dairy in them," Liz informs, snatching a few from his grasp before he has a chance to taste such forbidden fruit. "Maka said it gives you the shits."

"You don't know my life. Let me live."

She shakes her head, bun bobbing atop her head. "Kid made some for you. They're on the top."

"Maybe I want the other ones."

Wisely, she snatches the plate away and escapes to the kitchen. Just as wisely, he tails behind her, long arms reaching greedily onto the platter over her shoulder. He doesn't shy away when she play bites at his wrist.

"Maka, your boyfriend is ignoring his allergies again."

She bristles from her place at the table, halfway through setting up the game of Scrabble. It's almost routine, the way Liz teases and prods their relationship, but she still pinks violently and pouts, hissing, "He's not my boyfriend!" quickly, like a catch phrase, before following it with, "Eat your lactose-free snacks, Soul!"

From her side, Kid smirks and pops the cork on a bottle of red wine. "I made plenty."

Of course he did. Soul bares his teeth and snarls, calling upon his old defense mechanism, but it hasn't worked for years and instead of getting what he wants (actual, real person food) Maka slides him his own personal plate of fake cookies while the three of them get to pig out on the real deal. It's like being quarantined. He steals the bottle of wine for himself and holds it in his lap like a captive, frowning deeper when Liz makes a grab for the bottled nectar.

If he can't have what he wants, no one can. And he's not above bartering. He pokes the neck of the bottle over the lip of the table like a smuggled secret and narrows his eyes at her. She blinks back at him in return. He nudges his head toward the towering pile of milk-infused sweets.

She furrows those perfect brows of hers. "Maka-"

"Don't," he warns lowly. "This is a two person deal."

"What, are you thirteen?"

"I don't want to eat cardboard all night. It's not fair."

She rolls her eyes. Luckily, Kid and Maka are too busy intensely consulting a dictionary to notice their little deal spring to life.

"Kid's a great cook," Liz says, a little lower this time. She bows her head and Soul scoots his chair closer. "It's not like you have a gluten allergy. Those cookies are fine. I had one on the way here."

"I'm lactose-intolerant, not allergic. It's fine. I have pills."

Her breath tickles his ear as she leans closer. "I don't feel like waiting for the bathroom because you have the shits, Sullivan," she whispers cruelly, and something goes off in him like a bomb. Affronted, and surprised, he jerks back, glaring from her to Maka in quick succession.

"How do you-"

"Best friend. Tells me everything," she says innocently. Far too innocently, he thinks, for someone reaching into his lap - and before he has the chance to reclaim his prisoner, Liz's fingers are laced around the neck of the bottle and she's successfully rescued the wine. "Aha! Gotcha."

He scowls deeper and turns to further glare at Maka. She blinks up from her dictionary, big green eyes wide and seemingly blameless - but he knows better. Her head tilts as her brows furrow, staring right back at him as he slouches further in his seat and stuffs one of his wannabe cookies into his mouth. There's a reason he doesn't go around broadcasting his full name. He can only hope that Maka hadn't blabbed and told Liz his middle name, too.

Judging by the way Liz grins victoriously as she pours herself another drink, he's fucked.

"What?" Maka asks lightly.

Soul pouts further. "Traitor."

"What?"

"He's just upset that we won't enable his toilet quest," Liz says smugly. "Aaaanyway, is it my move yet?"

Kid drums his fingers on the table. "It's Soul's."

How game night came to be is still a mystery. It should be odd, to be crammed around a tiny table and playing scrabble with three of his friends (friends!) but it's not. He can still remember a time when companionship was hard, when putting together full sentences was a task and even being around others was draining. It still is, of course, but considerably less so around the right folk. These folk, apparently, as odd and different from him as they are, and as his gaze settles on Maka, who nibbles on her nail distractedly while Kid continues tallying up the points, he's overcome with an overwhelming sense of comfort and home.

Even if Liz knows embarrassing things like his name. Even if Kid bakes him his own personal stash of lactose-free sweets.

Even if Maka nags him like a mom and cares for him like a sister. Right?

He tries to be nonchalant about it as he forms a measly 4-letter word off of Kid's more impressive 7-letter creation, mumbling, "You guys excited about the reunion?", but his voice cracks and there's nothing chill about the way he tries to swallow back the bubbling anxieties.

Liz shuffles in her seat and takes another swig of wine. Kid answers for her, smiling brightly, teeth impeccably white. "Yes. I can't wait to catch up with everybody again. Plus I get to introduce everyone to my beautiful wife."

Said beautiful wife burns red and tips her wine glass back further. Maka laughs and nudges his shoulder. "Lovebirds."

"Are you?" Kid asks him back, very seriously. "It's alright to be nervous."

"Thanks, but I didn't sign up for a therapy session during a game of Scrabble. I'll have to decline."

He shakes his head. "Always so polite."

"He's coming with me," Maka answers, effortlessly as always. She has a funny habit of answering uncomfortable questions for him, and while he's a little annoyed that she can get into his head so easily, he's mostly thankful. She smiles at him lightly. "But I'm excited. I haven't seen Tsubaki since she moved to Canada. It'll be fun to see everyone and how far they've come from high school."

"And see who knocked who up," Soul pipes up, grinning lazily at the way Maka huffs at him. "C'mon, you know you're curious."

Because he's more than a little curious. Even more than that, though, he's curious to see just how many of their peers have tied the knot, in a nosy kind of way.

It might be the only bright side to the whole obnoxious shindig. High school sucked, why should he want to go back and relive his so-called golden years if most of them were spent avoiding people and trying too hard to be aloof? He's not that person anymore. He's grown. It's only because he doesn't want Maka to have to go alone that he's even attending at all, after all. For her sake.

And maybe because he wants to prove that he's not alone. Just a little bit. He has a cool, brainy roommate and friends and a band, alright? He amounted to a lot more than nothing, and so what if he wants to rub it in someone's face, just for a moment?

Liz slams her empty glass down and dumps her letters on the table. It's a suitable topic change, if that's what she's going for. "Alright, I have like no points and even Soul's kicking my ass. Maka, help me."

And like clockwork, Maka dutifully scoots her chair over and starts separating the vowels from the consonants.