"This is Maka." Soul thrusts his phone into a napping Blair's face, and when the brightened screen fails to draw Blair from her pretend nap, he gently bops her nose until she opens one eyelid and regards Maka's picture with mild interest. "She might come by one day, so be nice."

Blair's whiskers twitch in response.

"Yeah, she's kinda nice to look at, even if she reads too much and always looks worried." The knot in his stomach tightens when he focuses on her smiling face, the Nevada sun polishing her ash brown and gold, cheeks blithely pinched and posing next to a giant cactus. That day, he had taken her on a spur of the moment trip to the casino three hours down the highway, the pit stops just as fun as the actual gambling. "Actually, she's cute because of those nerdy things, no matter what. But don't tell anyone I said that."

"Meow," his squatter cat says.

"Don't judge me," he warns, joints protesting his kneeling position to talk face to face with Blair, who's curled up on-slash-hogging his only chair. He falls on his butt, grunting and puffing, rubbing his knees. "Anyway, that's Maka. We were going to get married. It's a long story."

"Meowwwww."

"Yes, she said yes on purpose. You're not the first one to doubt her taste in husbands - I mean, it was a friend marriage, but people always got our relationship messed up."

Now curious, the cat sits up, yellow eyes wide and expectant.

"I got our status messed up too, and I think she did too. She said it. Almost." Soul stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. "But I… don't know what to do."

As if mimicking him, the cat lowers herself onto her front paws too, yawning.

"She kissed me… There was no tongue but that can't be platonic, can it? The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that she likes me back, but, I don't know why she would? She can do better."

The two hold each other's gazes, Blair surrendering first and closing her eyes as soon as her head touches the chair, feigning sleep again.

"I have to do something, but I'm not sure what. Guess I have to make a move or something. Confess. Heart on my sleeve type of shit. Right Blair?"

Her whole tiny body rises and falls along with her deep breathing.

"You're so helpful," he deadpans, scratching her tummy. "Great time for you to learn something about personal space and not maul me. I could do without you trying to run up my back when I take a leak, by the way." He heaves a sigh. "But I don't blame you… I'm acting like an emo kid. I never grew out of that phase."

Ten AM rolls around while he pets her, thinking, thinking, nostalgic, wondering what life would be like if Maka had said I do. Hopefully they'd still be married, happily married, genuinely married.

Maybe he'd still be waiting for her.

"I wasted all this time talking to my cat," Soul says aloud, rolling his eyes, slapping himself on the forehead. Still, the pointlessness of the situation doesn't stop him from adding instructions to his goodbye as he pulls on his jacket: "Stay out of trouble, and keep an eye out in case Maka comes by."

X

"I hate you. You didn't have to tell the crew I'm lactose intolerant, you diaper bag."

"I was looking out for you," Soul defends, chewing noisily.

"Now I'm self conscious about how much time I spend in the bathroom! What if people think I have the runny shits every time I go in there, huh? That's not professional."

"Shut up and eat your protein pancakes, Jackie."

"No, the trust is broken now!" She stabs the plastic fork through a three stack of homemade flapjacks, pointing a sharp stare his way. "And you didn't even bring butter."

"Still looking out for you and your health."

"Listen boy, I need butter."

"You're welcome."

Working in the same building as his friend tricks him into believing he's back in high school. Their schedules don't mesh - her dulcet naggy voice broadcasts across not only Death City but the entire southwest region of the country at five am every week day, and he mans the midday shift, overseeing the equipment, flipping switches and handling disasters if and when they arise. When their paths cross, they slap each other five and bombard one another with loving threats or insults, and grabbing food has become their bonding time.

So far so good.

"I hope you know you're the only person I'd make pancakes for," he says, drenching his plate in syrup.

"This is a lie but I love you anyway." She swipes at her mouth with a napkin. "I know you've made pancakes for Maka, too. It's okay, I'm not jealous or anything."

"You're green with envy," he says, mystifyingly glad that he's wanted.

"Nah, I'm just jaded. My best friend has a best friend who is more than a best friend but isn't my friend so I can't matchmake-"

"Jackie-"

"Chill, chill! Stop choking, I'm kidding. I said I'd stay out of it. Don't be mad at me."

Soul gulps down the piece of pancake that traveled up his nose, leaving the smell of banana wedged in his nostrils. "Good, because I don't want to go through this again."

"Same," she sighs, still cutting her food into tiny pieces, a devilish aura flickering through her serious expression, so fast he believes he imagined it. "Hey, truth or dare?"

A sucker, that's what Soul is, a chump, a naïve moron, always saying the wrong thing: "Truth."

She goes in for the kill. "Do you like, like-like Maka?"

Something about keeping his pre-school best friend in the dark all these years about a basic, indisputable truth feels downright awful, like he's denying a part of himself. Regret courses through Soul - yeah, Wes talked about this before, why is he always right? - and coming clean is the best choice he can made all day. "Yeah, I do... More than like-like."

"Aww…" There's something innocent about the way she giggles, aglow with the honor of knowing his secret, his tender side. But the Jackie with the penchant for terrorizing him, like in third grade when she unleashed her pomeranian on him and it chased him around her backyard, comes out of her shell, grinning wickedly. "I'm telling."

His stomach drops.

"Hahaha - nah, just kidding. You told me not to get involved."

She's going to be the death of him.

"It's obvious anyway. I just wanted you to admit it." Jackie takes her time nibbling on a pancake bite, working his last anxious nerve. "The only person who doesn't know it is Maka. You should make it easier for her. Send her some flowers, give her a kiss, something."

More coughing, this time the syrup almost dumps him into an early grave. Oh - she already gave him a kiss! Maybe he does need the flowers. "I love you" flowers.

"Speaking of, I hope Wes enjoyed the flowers I gave to you to give to him, because I'm so sweet and caring-"

"He trashed them."

"No!" Jackie's eyes widen, the disbelief apparently traumatizing.

"Tsubaki didn't want to tell me but when I dropped by to pick up a floral arranging book the next day I saw them in their trash."

"I want to point out that what goes around comes around," she says, sticking her tongue out at him before sombering up. "But wow, Wes did that? He must be pissed."

Soul shrugs, bracing himself for whatever else Wes's fury brings. "I guess. He's supposed to come by later for more wedding stuff, so if I go missing you know who did it."

X

After work, Soul detours to the pet store to stock up on cat food, cat toys, and two scratching posts, but the scene greeting him in his bedroom makes him want to return the purchases and kick Blair out into the streets where she belongs. Denial is his first reaction when the shreds of fabric strewn about the bed, dresser, and even the top of his bookshelf register as too familiar.

"What did you do?" he asks her, and she purrs in his arms, well aware he craves affection. He bends down, holding one of the pieces between his thumb and index finger like it's contaminated with radioactive waste.

"Meeoww," she says, paws on his chest.

"Fuck my life," he whispers, blood running cold. A glance into the closet confirms his worst nightmare. Panic foams in his chest, crinkly and uproarious, the adrenaline rush clashing with the escalating dread horrendously. He's nauseated, but vomiting would only worsen the situation.

Hell breaks loose when Wes arrives half an hour later and Soul breaks the news to him.

"You're fucking with me, right?"

It's a complete one eighty. Revulsion extinguished like a candle light, Soul's vision bleeds red. Punching out his brother becomes a fantasy he's too close to fulfilling. "No, it's a real thing that happened. A mistake. She probably thought the pant legs were dangly toys."

"And she decided to climb up and shred the blazers, too?"

"Ask her, not me," Soul spits, defensive of poor stray Blair who listens and passes minimal but accurate judgement on him. And she's cuddly, easy to talk to, receptive to his emotions and headspace, always there - ugh, he's turned into a cat lady.

"How the fuck did the cat get into a closed closet?"

"She's streetsmart?" Soul throws his hands up. "I don't know, I'm not a cat whisperer."

Wes glowers, his disdain palpable. "These tuxes were custom tailored."

"Yes, I know, I'm the one who got that arranged. Listen, I'm sure the designer still has everyone's measurements-"

"It took them months to make!"

"Just throw some money at them, they'd work overtime to get another set in to us. The wedding's two months away. Calm your nuts."

Scowling, Wes shakes his head impatiently. "I know it's not a big deal to you because you don't give two shits about my wedding - you can at least look at me when I'm yelling at you, Soul."

"Sorry," he seethes, hating the venomous taste in his mouth, scanning the cat hair coated floor, physically unable to glance at his brother. "I was looking around for your mind, because it seems you lost it somewhere."

"That's the shit I was talking about all those weeks ago," Wes says, clutching the grey tattered fabric in his hands until his knuckles whiten. Damn, he must be restraining himself from strangling Soul. "I don't appreciate your bad attitude and negativity."

"You don't appreciate me at all," Soul corrects.

Wes laughs, ugly and bitter, wearing them expertly despite both rarely making public appearances. Figures - he's good at everything. "I asked you to do one thing: store the groomsmen's tuxes until the wedding. You couldn't even do that for me."

"It was a mistake! Blair doesn't know what she's doing, she's a cat."

"If you cared more you would have been more careful!"

An eerie calm washes over Soul. He retreats into himself to discover that he's rotten to the core, black with mold, the pent up hostility mounting to critical levels, his blood boiling. "You don't like me. How I am or act, or-"

"It's hard to like a jealous pessimist."

A vital artery in Soul's brain must burst because a it feels like bomb detonates in his left temple, the pain scalding, knifelike. "Sometimes I can't stand you, Wes."

His brother throws his hands up in a what-can-you-do manner, his detachment too natural, like he killed a car engine. "Well fuck, you're not easy to be around either."

The words are a sword through his stomach. Soul stumbles backward, tripping over Blair, who wrapped herself around his ankles as if to protect him from this cold, apathetic stranger named Wes Evans.

"Don't worry about keeping those for the memories or anything. Throw them in the dumpster or cut them up for toilet paper. Whatever. I'll rush order new ones."

Sauntering off with violent, passive aggressive poise only a refined gentleman could pull off, Wes slams the front door shut behind him before Soul can think. One single thought unfolds in his mind and stays for the rest of the evening: it's so quiet now.

X

Nights are for feeling without clamming up. Everything hurts more - his first real argument with his brother, his empty apartment, Maka's distance. He's alone and in need of a long, warm hug, but all he has available are darkness, a space heater blowing mediocre hot air at him, and Blair sleeping directly on his feet so he can't move or else risk kicking her across the room.

There must be some connection between him and Maka, like a string with each tied to their fingers, because she calls him, also in need.

"I can't sleep," she says, and he closes his eyes to imagine her next to him. "I feel horrible about not planning Tsubaki's bachelorette party. I can't believe I forgot about it."

"You're planning their royal wedding and others at the same time. Try not to be too hard on yourself."

"But you should have seen her face, Soul, she was heartbroken."

"They planned the event pretty fast though, it turned out okay."

Maka's voice cracks. "I feel so bad."

Sand clots his throat, his tummy warm with her sorrow, the pain radiating, magnifying, heavy like lead but shapeless like air, filling him. He can't breathe listening to her sniffle, envisioning her tucked in her bed for refuge. Clenching her teeth. Face wet, blotchy. Silent, only whimpers peeking through the bottle where she's trapped her anguish.

"She planned it all in one sentence," she says quietly. "Why couldn't I do that?"

"Maka…"

Nothing. She's silent, probably biting her finger to mute her pain the way she did when her parents separated and her mama moved out. "I'm so tired, Soul. And I miss you."

Whoa - although the change of topic is unexpected and he's not sure where her thoughts have traveled, his eyes go glassy automatically. "I miss you too."

She gulps, and guilt nearly eats him alive for being another source of her anguish. "Let's spend more time together?"

"'Course." For once his brain and mouth coordinate and work together. "Wanna go with me to Tsu and Wes's party? I'll pick you up. I hope you don't mind showing up with wind blown hair."

"I'll wear it half up," she sniffle-laughs.

As both silence and the night settles in, Soul cherished one truth: they're together. Almost. She's not here in his bed and he's not brave enough to change that (he should send flowers, the answer's been staring him straight in the face), but at least she's drifting back.

All he had to do was wait.

Hunger approaches - he's watched her sleep before, when she dozed off while inking invitations or marathoning a reality TV show, but the night magnifies his loneliness, one only Maka can fill. With eyes closed, he lingers in that place between dreams and reality, thinking about her nose, her hands, her smile, her drive, her ambition.

She's so close, yet so far. He wants to be with her so bad it hurts.

"Hey Maka?"

Nothing, but she's there, out of his reach. She must have fallen asleep.

"I have something to tell you."

Nothing, only soft breathing.

"... I still love you."

X

"Hi, I saw something you absolutely had to have," Patti chirps the next morning, pushing her way into the apartment past a shirtless Soul, who wouldn't be able to differentiate between up and down in his drowsy state. "Happy impromptu house warming! You should think about hosting one soon, your place is… empty."

Soul rubs his eyes, squinting at the potted baby aloe vera plant in her hands. "Did you steal those from someone's yard?"

"No, it was public property." Her cheery grin falls when she takes a closer look at him. "What's up? You look..."

"Emo, yeah, yeah," he finishes for her, swiping a hand through his hair.

"It's…" She taps on her smart watch. "Like, four in the evening, why are you sleeping?"

Because I stayed up late listening to Maka breathing and hating myself would have been his reply, but he'd be forced to open up about his feelings toward not only her but himself, and right now, he lacks nice things to report about Soul Evans, moody, lovesick, awful little brother.

Instead Soul reasons that he plans to charge up on sleep in case he stays out late partying with the squad. If he and Maka don't ditch, too guilty to show their faces.

"No ifs, you mean when, silly."

"Wes hates me."

"Siblings can love and hate each other at the same time." Skipping to the windowsill where she introduces the aloe vera to its new dwelling, she turns to Soul, her attention sidetracked when she notices Blair poking her small head out of the bathroom, watching.

"Wes hates me and hates being my brother," Soul continues, well aware he's parroting a five year old whose candy was stolen, but he can't unhear what Wes said during the argument. Nor can Soul unfeel the rejection, even though he brought it upon himself.

"Hmm… let me say this: Sissy has my back. That's what older siblings do, and that's what I think Wes is doing for you, too."

"Yeah but… he's just… so outgoing and loud and annoying. He doesn't understand me." Soul throws himself flat on the floor, reveling in the floor's hardness against his knotted back muscles. "And when I try to tell him stuff he goes like, 'everything's gonna be great, you can do it, you gotta dream it to achieve it', blah blah blah. We live totally different lives and always have."

"I can see that. He's soooo handsome, like a movie star," Patti adds, smacking her lips to reel Blair into her lap. "You're jealous."

"Am not," he lies to the ceiling, the dots of rumpled paint moving whenever he focuses on another point. "He says I have a stank ass attitude."

"Well, it's not untrue."

Soul flips her off.

"That's why I got you this aloe vera, it looks prickly, but really, it's helpful and nice to have around."

"I'm…" Soul closes his eyes, the ceiling paint playing tricks on him. "Thanks Patti, I really do appreciate you. That's the… most normal, nice thing you've ever said."

"Aye aye," she pirates, saluting him. "But…"

"I don't think Wes sees me like that," he finishes for her, disappointment making a home in his chest.

"You talk a monster ton of crap about him but his opinion means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

Guilty as charged. But he can't admit it, so he opens his eyes just so that he can wince. "He bothers me."

Patti barks out a laugh astoundingly loud for her petite body. "It's weird, I've always thought that you and Sissy are alike, and me and Wes are alike. We like to make people smile and be happy and act like we don't have a care in the world. You and Sissy are worry warts and think too much. She can be a killjoy sometimes - "don't scare me, stop trespassing, you're going to get hurt" - but I know she does it because she worries."

Sure, Soul connects the dots between himself and Liz, who both shared the same love of punk rock bands and the apathetic, cool kid reputation in high school, but the comparison between Patti and Wes lacks concrete substance. While both have childlike optimism , Wes - well, Wes… lacks empathy. Whenever Soul needed a listening ear, Wes supplied him with opinions, suggestions that resembled orders, and misunderstandings.

"...So, the way I see it, I don't think Wes is trying to talk down to you. He doesn't hate you. You both see the world differently," Patti is saying, proud, becking Blair over animatedly, blowing kisses.

"No shit."

"Yeah!" She snaps her fingers, hat flopping to the floor in all her excitement. "Exactly like that. Wes believes in that law of attraction stuff. Positivity brings in positivity, so when he sees you acting negative, he gets frustrated."

Soul narrows his eyes at nothing in particular, though misdirected rage pops up out of the blue. "So Wes thinks I get what I deserve?"

"Nooo, no way! He probably thinks his way of thinking is right because it's worked for him. He doesn't realize he might be kinda wrong to believe that everyone should think the same way as him."

"He's forgetting that luck has something to do with it, too." Hands now clasped together and rested on his stomach, he feels like a corpse at a viewing. "He's lucky, and that's why he's so annoying. It's like he keeps hoarding luck and good vibes and it makes me want to scratch my eyes out because he needs to be knocked down a peg."

In the corner of his eye, Patti beckons a skeptical Blair over using her hat. "Mmm-hmm, exactly! He doesn't understand that not everyone has his same luck."

Blair pounces on Soul's chest, claiming him as her own, and refuses to budge when he swats gently at her, trying unsuccessfully to dig her claws out of his shirt. "He tries to fix stuff how he thinks they should be fixed and doesn't think that maybe it won't work because we're different people."

"C'mere, kitty kitty kitty… come to Aunt Patti~"

"Ughh, he's a brat. He's a bad listener, too. Always brushing me off with when I complain or try to tell him something. 'You just have to be positive!' And then he wonders why I don't tell him shit - oww, Blair!"

Said cat scampers off Soul, nails digging into his skin through his shirt fabric, and springs into Patti's inviting arms, purring delightedly.

"Aww, who's soft and precious? Who loves her Aunt Patti?"

"Stupid Wes," Soul mutters, bolstering himself up to his elbow to stare daggers at his pet. "Him and his stale empty words can suck on a cactus."

"He means well I think," Patti says, her attention split between him and Blair, though she has eyes for no one but the latter. "Like I said… he reminds me of me, and Sissy reminds me of you. When Sissy starts crying and stays in bed, I don't know what to do besides try to make her smile and forget about it. I'm not the best comforter, no pun intended. But I do love her."

Soul stares at the two but doesn't see them. His mind drifts, showing him a picture slideshow: Wes front row and center at one of Soul's piano recitals, Wes teaching Soul how to drive, Wes coordinating that apprenticeship job in LA, Wes asking him to be his best man…

"Welp, I gotta go get ready for the get together tonight." Patti hugs Blair close before setting her down, telling her to run along and play. "You're coming too, right?"

"Wes is gonna shoot me."

"Great, then we'll see you there." Cowboy hat on her head again, she surveys Blair's chair, food and water bowls, the dust gathering in the corner, and the amp he picked up at a garage sale two weekends ago. "This is sad. I bet you only have one plate and fork and spoon and mug and - ah, that's it! I'll plan a housewarming party for you!"

Dismissing the suggestion is his first instinct. Someone envious and screwed up like Soul deserves alienation, a time out, the cold shoulder - no, no, scratch that. God, what had Wes lectured him about, to honor his feelings? Yeah, that's it. Strengthening the reflex to stop talking down to himself might take months, years, a lifetime to build, but baby steps go a long way. What he really needs is a therapist to help him work through his inferiority complex issues, family, and, most of all, friends.

"Thanks, Patti, that would mean a lot to me."

X

It's spring. The remnants of winter linger in the breeze, but the air is fresh and crisp and reinvigorating as he pulls up to Maka's apartment complex. She's waiting for him, dress flowing, streetlight sliding down her neck.

His hands burn with the memory, reliving the feel of her skin.

"I hope I don't flash anyone," she yells as she climbs on, bare thighs fitting perfectly around him.

"Don't do it for free," Soul jokes, fully expecting a karate chop to his skull.

"If you drive fast enough people won't know it's me," she counters, patting his shoulders for him to drive forward.

Soul is but a humble servant.

X

This time, the lights aren't neon pink, glazing the world in reality altering vibrancy. No, hues of blues and purples and silver fuse together, watercoloring Maka all the same. The music vibrates through his bones, and once again, he can't feel his heartbeat.

"I hate crowds. I don't listen to this kind of music. It's hot. I'm thirsty. I-"

"Soul, we just got here." She surveys the people sashaying and shimmying and mingling in the vicinity, searching for familiar faces. "Help me lo - ah, I see them!"

Jackie's sequin dress signals Soul and Maka to their party, Kim and Patti giggling with their heads together, Liz chatting up a brunette at the next table.

"You look like a disco ball," Soul tells Jackie, who twirls around, shaking her ass. "What's that glittery mess on your face?"

"Your hopes and dreams," she says, outlining her cheekbones like she's selling a product on the late hour shows. "It's the best highlighter ever."

An elated shout draws their attention - clearly, Liz snubbing her potential date to welcome Maka - and Soul shoots Jackie a warning.

"My lips are sealed," she promises.

Funny, he thinks as the group convenes and he notices Maka fidget in Jackie's presence, that Jackie's habit of flinging gratuitous advice doesn't quite rub him the wrong way. Deep inside, he knows it's out of love, so why should it be different for Wes?

The answer materializes in his head soon after. She's loud when angered, opinionated, and brash - not cocky or smooth talking like perfect, model-esque Wes.

Speak of the Devil. His older brother joins the group five seconds later, awash with sweat and the thrill of having danced with his fiance.

"Hey," Soul says when their eyes meet.

Wes nods in acknowledgement, curt, aloof. Tsubaki unravels herself from Wes's arm to embrace Soul, thanking him for coming, for all the work he's put into the planning, for staying, for being her family. As much as the words touch something raw and delicate inside him, Soul refuses to accept her kindness, too suspicious that she's atoning for actions that shouldn't fall as her responsibility.

Still, he can't push her away. Their slate is clean. Better not sully it this early.

"Thanks, Tsu. You're the best."

And she truly is, because she tows a stony faced Wes away when the DJ plays their request, but not fast enough - an impish voice whispers to Soul that damage is already done, and even perfect Wes would probably agree.

X

"Wes hates me."

Maka's face breaks. "Oh-"

"It's fine, I don't want to talk about it."

Ice cubes in her strawberry lemonade clink as she sets her glass down on the tall round table they claimed as their own after fleeing the group. Migrating to the opposite side of the club had been a mutual agreement, especially after Wes made a toast and excluded his little brother from the list of people he holds dear.

Just when Soul thought he suffered all that he possibly can, that happened, and he's not torn up, no, but not trembling is impossible, the jittery energy expanding within him with no way to escape.

Maka understands, reads him like braille. "Let's dance-"

That would require touching, and he'd like nothing more, but, his day isn't complete without a dose of sabotage. "I don't dance and you know that."

She stands her ground. "Liar. You do, I've seen you."

"I can waltz, not booty grind or krump."

Hooking her arm around his, she tugs, grunting with the struggle of moving him. "C'mon, I'll teach you the pon pon dance."

"Miss me with that techno shit, Maka."

She gasps, exaggerated and offended. "It's fun! You're just still mad that I beat you at the DDR version of it back in tenth grade."

He scoffs. "My shoelaces were untied!"

Kicking her shoes off, she shimmies her shoulders, jazz hands out. "Bull."

He's dying - how can such a dumb dance be so… cute? "They were!"

"LIES," she taunts, easily picking up where she left off, hair bouncing with her movements, arms flailing, legs springing out like a rockette in slow motion, head dipping forward and to the sides.

"Maka, god, you're embarrassing me," he groans, using his hand as a visor against any spectators. "You're not even on the rhythm."

"Because I'm thinking about the pon pon song, not the one that's playing - oooh." She's breathing heavy, slowing to a stop. "Oh! I know this one."

"I…" He listens. It's a slow number, the couples on the dance floor melding together, arms around each other, faces tucked into necks, lips on cheeks. "I have never heard this."

She tucks her hair behind her ear, shy and hesitant but decisive for once. "Is it okay if I lead?"

Always, he wants to say, but absolutes stand as flimsy, tenuous promises in her eyes, and he's trying to bridge the gap between them, not drive them apart. "I'm your man, Maka."

They sway in a lackadaisical circle for that song and the following ones regardless of their tempo, a good three feet apart, joined at only the hands, until Maka lets go first and asks him to take her home. She doesn't invite him inside, but after he walks her to the door, mounts back on his bike, and glances up at her window, he can see her, peeking at him through the blinds.