PART 11

MAKA

.

She's calling it spring cleaning, but it's still not enough to motivate Soul out of bed.

But they have company coming, for goodness' sake, and if there's one thing her mama had instilled in her as a child, it was to project competence, despite everything else - a baby on the way, her husband's infidelity, a crumbling marriage - and if Maka is anything, she is certainly her mother's daughter. And goddammit, she can get her apartment looking spotless, with or without her lazy, no-good, tall-and-actually-quite-good-at-dusting-the-ceiling-fan roommate.

With her hair tied up in twintails, Maka shamelessly revs up the vacuum and makes her rounds up and down the hall. She knocks her knuckles against Soul's bedroom door on each pass, just for good measure. His resulting groan is barely muted beneath the hum of their decrepit vacuum.

It's not that they live surrounded by filth by any means, but the apartment is certainly lived in, and Maka works long hours and Soul overnight, so sometimes routine cleaning doesn't get done. Dishes are often washed, and they make trips to the laundromat together, but things like dusting and cleaning the bathroom sink's drain and vacuuming, apparently, sometimes get overlooked. It's hard, working up the energy to clean by herself, while thinking about Soul, plucking away at his keyboard, looking ridiculously moody and handsome elsewhere. And if she's not the one putting in the elbow grease and scrubbing down the fridge, well, Soul's certainly not about to do it. His knees crack and he groans everytime he has to kneel down, and he's only in his 20s.

She makes a mental note to get on him about that. He's too young to be falling apart. Bad posture is tearing her newly minted maybe-boyfriend apart, and they haven't even gotten to second base yet. It's unfair, thinking about it; those pretty hands of his are distracting on even a good day, and yet the wannabe-geezer still manages to be both the most attractive man she's ever seen and a creaky bag of bones in the same breath.

It makes no sense. He makes no sense. Or, er- maybe she's the one who makes no sense. Brows furrowed, she kicks his door for good measure, and Soul grunts from inside. "Makaaaaaaaaa."

"Get up, sleepyhead!" she scolds, absolutely not thinking of legs and hips and back, ugh. What is the point, if she can't seem to keep her brain off of him? "You still need to get up and ready - we're picking Wes up at the airport in a couple of hours and I can't make your bed while you're in it."

He grumbles, and faintly, Maka can hear him begin to stir within the confines of his bedroom. Their vacuum sputters, wheezing like maybe it is the true old man of the apartment, and Maka hastily finishes vacuuming before it has the chance to die in her hands.

"Come on, baby," she mutters, "you can do it, just a little more and you can sleep."

Soul's bedroom door creaks behind her, and he's rumbling, "'ssat a promise?" as she spins around to face him.

He's delightfully ruffled, sleepy eyes and bedhead and- and practically naked, for goodness' sake, she realizes with a jolt, swiftly spinning back around to avoid gawking at him. It's his apartment just as much as it is hers, she supposes, and there is no real rule preventing him from waltzing out of his room in nothing more than his underwear, but still- a little warning would be nice! Her poor heart cannot handle such sudden nudity; she is just one girl, armed with nothing more than a wheezing vacuum and a hummingbird heart, and he's- he's-!

Tall. Broader than he has any right to be, lazy thing that he is. What happened to that shy boy she's grown to know and love? He's never just pranced around in nothing more than his boxers - not while she was home, at least. Is this his routine, while she is away at work? Christening their halls with his bare skin and stubbly jaw?

"Soul!" she gasps, burning bright. The vacuum revs and screeches, and Maka bends to yank the cord from the outlet, fidgeting as his door shuts behind her. "Put some clothes on, would you?"

He yawns, then shuffles toward the bathroom door. Maka watches his shadow through the corner of her eye, busying herself with coiling the cord around her forearm. "You've never called me baby before," he says, sounding faintly amused.

She will never. "I was talking to the old man."

"What, white hair isn't enough for you? Geez, Albarn."

Maka spins around, miffed, pigtails slapping her shoulders. "You-!" Naked. Practically naked, and he's rubbing his stomach idly, watching her through his lashes. Dandelion fuzz, goodness, and rising suns beneath them. There's so much blatant boyskin on display and it's too much for her, and she struggles valiantly to keep her eyes on his face and not his treasure trail, or his prominent hipbones, or- or that v, leading beneath his waistband, places Maka doesn't dare look.

And he crooks a smile, dimple and all. "I'm gonna take a shower," he says slowly, grin widening. "Like you told me to."

He knows all of her buttons. It's impossible for him not to, not while they've lived together for so long- she's scolded him a thousand times for leaving his underwear on the bathroom floor, for leaving the toilet seat up, for drinking directly out of her milk carton, and yet she still falls for it every time. Helpless, she's so helpless when it comes to him, and he seems to take perverse pride in what sway he has over her, grinning as she fidgets and crosses her arms over her chest, staring pointedly at his jaw.

"Then get in the shower, Soul."

"Is that an order?" he asks cheekily.

Apparently, with all of his cards already spread out on the table, he has ceased giving a shit about being self conscious around her. Pre-Reunion Soul would have never subjected her to such a show. Hell, Pre-Reunion Soul would have danced around her, waited until she'd begun cleaning her own room before shuffling into the bathroom without a peep, head hung.

Maka bites her lip. It's… it's not really a bad thing, for him to feel so comfortable in his own skin around her. And he's certainly easy on the eyes, all things considered. Her boyfriend (boyfriend? he is her boyfriend, isn't he?) is handsome. Kind of lanky, but he still has his own charm about him, and there's never really been anyone else Maka's found herself so magnetized to. Somewhere along the line, her gaze begins to drift downward, and she only catches herself staring at his belly button when he clears his throat and she can practically feel her fingertips dripping red.

Guilty guilty. And she's the one who wants to take it slow, too. Ugh.

"Hey," he says, suddenly quite serious, reaching out to twirl a pigtail between his fingers. "Uh."

Whatever he's going to say, she's not sure she'll be able to take it. An apology, maybe? But then, for what? Being comfortable enough in his skin to not cover up in his own home, around his own partner? Maka burns brighter just thinking about it, and brushes her thumb over the delicate skin of his wrist. "You're going to catch a cold, you nudist."

Soul laughs, kind of. More like a relieved exhale of breath, really. "You know Wes really isn't going to give a shit if the apartment looks lived in. 'm his brother, he kind of knows what he's getting into."

"But if he's going to sleep in your room, he kind of needs to be able to find the bed."

His brows furrow at that. "My room is not that messy. And you find the bed just fine, thanks."

"I live here. A-and you- you lead me in there," she says, sputtering, heat rising impossibly. Soul smiles again, but there's color in his cheeks, too. Every night she has spent in Soul's bed since that night has been either instigated by him and his clingy, cuddle-hungry ways or a mutual, exhausted talk-session, and he'd lead her to his room with a hand in hers and a soft look in his eyes. "Don't innuendo me, Evans."

He shrugs guiltlessly. "You walk right into 'em. Besides," he says, and twirls her hair again before giving a gentle tug, and like a dog on a leash, she's lead right to him, and he's right there, leaning down, and Maka could count every faint eyelash, if he wasn't moving closer.

Besides. His mouth is warm, if a little sluggish, but he's probably still too sleepy to really chase away the monsters hiding under his bed, so it's wet and soft and good and her knees melt into useless goo. Maka grasps the doorframe as Soul's hand leaves her hair to cup her face instead, cradling her cheek against his palm as he eases her embarrassed, nervously fluttering heart to a sated rumble. She stands on her toes for better leverage, straining to kiss him even as he backs away, smiling crookedly. To dangle something so precious before her, just to take it away- it's cruel, she thinks, standing tall on her toes.

His thumb brushes along her cheek languidly. "Hmm."

"Besides what," she finally asks, heart in her throat. "Soul."

He has such pretty, pretty hands, soft fingers and palms. Soul has perfect permission to cradle her face in his hands all day, if it means he'll look at her the same way, heated eyes and bitten lip. "It'll be hard to tease you while Wes is here. Gotta make the most of the time we have now."

"You don't have to tease me."

"What's the fun in that?" He's still teasing her, but he brushes her bangs from her eyes in the same breath and kisses her nose shortly after, then her forehead. Such gentle attention from a boy wearing nothing but his underwear.

How, she wonders, is she ever supposed to think of anything else while he's around? It's frustrating, the way one easy grin can melt her concentration; she's not this girl, and she's never been this girl before, but he- there's something about him, and his eyes, and his hands, and - most importantly - the way he makes her feel, so safe and secure. He's home. As much as a person can be home, anyway, and for a girl like herself, so previously disinterested in the idea of marriage and happily ever after (and romance, ugh) it's a lot. Like a lot a lot.

"He'll only be here for a week," she finds herself saying mindlessly, still thinking of soft lips and smart tongues and how his kiss might feel in other places, too. Whether such a statement is meant to comfort him or her, she's unsure.

There's ancient dread in Soul's sigh. "Wes knows how to overstay his welcome."

"He's your brother, Soul."

"Drop the 'r'. He's my bother," Soul insists, then leans back and knocks his knuckles briefly against her forehead. It should absolutely not be romantic, but they've always been a little different about things like attraction and the like; regardless, there's still a flutter in her chest, and she sinks down to stand flat-footed again, pouting mildly. "Don't give me that look, Albarn. If your old man was staying with us you'd be the same way."

"Papa would catcall at women in the hallway on the way here."

"Wes is absolutely going to get a few numbers before he leaves and you know it," Soul says, dragging a hand through his hair. It's shorter, now, and stands up every which-way, and somehow doing nothing to lessen the poor guy's cowlick. "He'll give us shit, too."

She leans against the doorframe and smiles wryly as the plastic rings of the curtain shriek, yanked back to reveal their homey little shower. "He always gives us shit, Soul. Mostly you. It's his thing."

"I hate it."

"He loves you," she sing-songs. "It's how he shows his love."

He huffs, and the shower groggily spills to life. Maka blinks, and then Soul's raising a brow at her, quietly tugging at the waistband of his boxers, and- oh, right. He'd been about to shower, and even if- even if she was feeling confident and brave enough to, erm, introduce just how she would like to show Soul her love, they're kind of on a time constraint. Still, though, despite her best efforts, she lingers for a moment, teetering on the cusp of something frisky and the bubbling, age-old insecurities that lurk deep within her bones.

And then she falls back, grappling for the vacuum, busying herself as to focus on anything but the way he'd looked at her. The way he's still looking at her, knelt over, backside presented to him, in her cotton sleep shorts and knee-high socks.

"He doesn't have to tease me so much," Soul says, and there's a gruffness to his voice that Maka trips over. Nearly splits her head open in the apartment hallway because of it. That roughness, that grit- he's still standing there in the damn bathroom, underwear hanging low on his hips, a quiet question burning beneath the snowy white of his lashes.

But she is not yet brave enough to carry forth. "Where's the fun in that?" Maka parrots, and through the corner of her eye she catches him shaking his head, half-smile on his face, as he nudges the bathroom door shut.

It's only after the shower sings to life that she realizes she's been conned into cleaning his room, too. A Soul Evans shower lasts no less than thirty minutes, and Wes won't pick himself up from the airport.

.

"I spy with my little eye somethiiiiiing… prickly."

Soul heaves a long-suffering sigh and sinks further back into the cushion of the booth. "For fuck's sake, Wes, could you spy something other than me?"

It's startling, sometimes, how alike the two look. Even knowing them for at least half of her life, sometimes it still catches her off guard; Maka sits across from the two brothers, sipping her lemonade, watching as Wes cracks Soul's shit-eating grin, watching as Soul sinks back, hair no longer shaggy enough to hide behind. It's almost like they're twins, though only in looks. Even in aesthetics, there is still a clear definition between Wes's crisp, ironed shirts and Soul's wrinkled, day-old band tees.

Still, though, the resemblance is uncanny. Especially with Soul's new haircut - if there was ever a question about whether Soul was truly an Evans, well, here is the answer; he's practically Wes's doppleganger, only with a slightly less square jaw and darker eyes.

It makes her head spin a little. She's kissed lips like those. She's enjoyed kissing lips like those, but gawking at Wes just isn't the same. For goodness' sake, Soul's the spitting image of his big brother, and by all means, if she's apparently attracted to the younger Evans, shouldn't she be at least a little bit into his older brother? Because not even three hours ago, she'd felt warm and silly, standing in their apartment hallway, eyes greedily roving the expanse of Soul's bare chest, but Wes - Wes is probably just as physically attractive as her roommate but he doesn't inspire a damn thing like it in her.

Strange.

"Prickly little porcupine," Wes says affectionately, leaning toward his younger brother and bumping shoulders amiably. "It's been much too long since I've gotten to see you! It's not my fault you do a fantastic job of avoiding family get-togethers and holidays. We missed you at Christmas dinner, Soul. Mother was not pleased."

He huffs and slouches toward the window, chin in hand, looking ridiculously angsty and put upon. "Had to visit Maka's mom, I told you that. Wasn't about to let her travel halfway across the country on her own, y'know."

"Ah," Wes sighs, nodding. "Right. Had to meet the parents."

Try as he might to hide it, there's still a hint of pink warming his features, and Soul turns toward the sun, perhaps in an attempt to let the sunlight wash him out. "I've met her mother before, asshole."

"I'm right here, you know."

No good deed goes unpunished. It seems, by drawing attention away from her blushing boy-something, the fates (and Wes) have decided it is her turn to be grilled. Wes smiles into his cup of coffee, sighing as the cup clinks on the dish. "How rude of me. How was Christmas, Maka, with Soul and your mother? I hope my baby brother left a good impression on his in laws."

It's always been like this, Wes teasing them, playfully nudging them together, but it feels different, now that there is some truth to it. Ah. Perhaps she should stare directly into the sunlight, too, because there's no way she's not blushing as well. She's cursed; being this fair skinned and susceptible to her emotions has left her an open book, coloring so easily, a freckled, rosy mess.

Soul seems to be faring no better. He raises a brow at her, fingers drumming on his cheek. Had he left a good impression on his potential in laws?

"Mama's met Soul plenty of times before," Maka answers, sitting taller in her seat, circling a finger around the rim of her glass. "She likes him about as much as she likes anyone else, I guess."

Soul snorts. "She likes you, dweeblord."

"I'm her daughter, she's biased," she blurts defensively. To have conversation centered around her mother so casually - it's almost cruel, she thinks, as her stomach twists, unsettled. She thinks of her Mama, with a new baby girl bouncing on her hip, the same no-nonsense hardness in her eyes as Maka'd impulsively reached for Soul's sleeve, and suddenly her appetite is nonexistent. Maka swallows thickly. "... Besides, Papa's the one he should be worried about impressing."

"Ugh, can we not."

Wes seems almost giddy, He scoots forward, hand reaching out to jostle his brother's shoulder. "Her old man still giving you a hard time? It's been, what, ten years, now?"

"He's the worst," Maka says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know what he's so worried about. Soul's the biggest wet blanket I've ever met."

"Hey."

It's all in good fun. This is how they work, after all. They tease and pick and prod and fall together, despite everything else. Support each other, through thick and thin, wayward mothers and expectant parents, and Maka taps his foot with her toes, shooting him a secret, tiny smile.

And he grins, too, leaning partially out of the sun, his hair stark, startling white in the harsh light. "'Least I can stay up past midnight."

"At least I don't cry at the end of Old Yeller!"

His foot taps back, lightly, at her bare ankles, her shin. The toe of his boot is cold, and she will not shiver beneath Wes's watchful eye, but there is a delightful thrill in playing footsies in public. What a fun little secret, barely hidden away, and oh, Soul's so cute when he's trying to bite back a laugh. He shouldn't be laughing. She's dragging him, dammit, like a good best friend does.

"Didn't cry," he insists, "Vinegar in my eye."

"Then wash your hands before you rub your face. Duh!"

Wes shakes his head and sips his coffee. Beneath the table, Maka's slipped her sandal off and kicks a foot up to rub just below Soul's knee, and baby bro Evans sits tall, lips pressed together tightly.

Checkmate, she thinks, grinning into her lemonade.

.

"So, how long have you been playing tonsil tennis with my baby brother?"

Maka's onion rings attempt to make a swift exit.

"Wh-!" She chokes, grappling for a glass of anything, and because the universe must hate her (or enjoys playing cruel, cruel jokes) her hands find Soul's soda, of all things. And, well, she is still sort of coughing around fried crispiness, and her lemonade's long gone at this point, so she downs the drink anyway, despite Wes's bemused grin.

He is entirely too smug. "That long, huh?"

"Excuse me?" she asks, once her windpipe is clear and she has a better grasp on reality. Here she'd been, aimlessly daydreaming while staring out the window like she was starring in some sort of mid-2000's music video, perfectly harmless and vulnerable while her kissing partner slash probaby boyfriend beelined for the toilets. She'd thought herself so safe, too, as if Wes wouldn't strike while Soul wasn't around to amusingly complain and pout. How wrong she'd been.

The fates are cruel. She glares at him as she nudges Soul's glass back to his side of the booth, silently berating herself for sucking down her drink before their meals had even arrived. Where's their server, anyway? A refill would have at least saved her from putting on a show and indirectly kissing Wes's baby brother before his very eyes. Heck.

"Was it too crude of me?" Wes wonders aloud, still smiling in that infuriating way. He leans back in his seat and at least has the grace to try and iron out his expression into something a little less satisfied. "Sorry. Let me rephrase: how long have you been kissing our dear beloved edgelord?"

Maka makes tiny panicky flutters with her hands before mashing them to her lap. "W-we're not, um! I mean." This is not good. Even she's not entirely clear on the situation herself; we'll take it slow, he'd said, but she's still unsure if that means they're formally dating or if they're just really good friends who touch each other's butts and swap spit. Can they be going steady if they've never gone out on an actual date? And- and if they are dating, or, or whatever they're going to call it, is she in the clear to tell Wes? Isn't it sort of Soul's job, or choice to make, or whatever?

He leans forward and brushes a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It's not at all suggestive and every bit parental, and she's a little pleased that thirteen-year-old Maka does not make a swift return and melt. "I'd like nieces and nephews to spoil rotten someday, you know," he says grandly. "Mum and I have been waiting years for you two to figure out what's going on between you. We only have so many pretty years left for family photos."

Somehow, Maka thinks the Evanses have enough funds to keep themselves looking wrinkle-free for many years to come. Besides, they've sort of landed the genetic jackpot anyway, if Wes's award-winning smile is any evidence.

Denial is the only option. She cannot think about babies ever after with Soul, not yet. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Soul's right," he says, smiling maddeningly. "You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"H-He said that? To you?" Christ, she may never retain her normal coloring. She shoots a look over her shoulder, wondering what the hell could be taking her roommate so long, wondering why he's so cruelly damned her to this conversation alone. "Why would he- ugh, he's the worst, that explains this morning-"

Wes laughs brightly. "He didn't!"

"-You!"

He holds his hands up in apology, or maybe surrender - Wes can't be forgetful enough to not remember her temper, no way - and plucks an onion ring from her plate. "You are cute, though, when you blush. He is too. And you're grossly obvious, flirting over lunch. I was not born yesterday, you know."

Thiiiis is not her call to make. This is Soul's. Wes is his brother, and his loud-mouth brother will tell his mother, and his mother will blow up Soul's cellphone until he's forced to grow up and interact with his family. It is not Maka's place to spill the beans for him - if there are even beans to spill. Besides, she thinks, gripping the fabric of her skirt in her lap, why the hell does everyone care so much anyway? Can't they just exist and try to figure it out themselves before announcing to the world that, yes, Maka Albarn has indeed stuffed her tongue down Soul Evans's throat, more on page 10!

It's frustrating. Maka can barely make sense of her feelings in her head, never mind admit them aloud to Wes, of all people. "I do not flirt."

"You might not twirl your pigtail around your finger or anything, but you have a way about you," Wes says, chomping on her meal. "Bickering and such."

That's not even plausible evidence. They bicker more often than they make out. "We've always done that, Wes. It definitely doesn't count."

"What doesn't count?"

Oh, so now he decides to show up. How hilariously inconvenient, for him to only catch the awkward tail end of the conversation. She glares at him, perhaps a bit unreasonably, and Soul dwindles beneath her misplaced ire, crumbling like bricks. "Uh? Should I, uh, go back to the bathroom?"

"Don't you dare," she hisses, and Wes cackles.

"Come, sit down, little brother," Wes coos, scooting toward the wall and patting the worn plastic of the booth amiably. "I was just grilling your dear girlfriend here on how long you two have been making kissy face at one another. You know. Without letting your beloved brother know, Soul."

He looks helplessly at her. Flounders like a fish out of water for a second, before resuming the comfortable role of deep, deep denial, and Maka shrinks down in her seat, dragging a hand down her face. "I don't know what you're talking about," Soul deadpans, expression tight.

His brother simpers. "I saw the footsies."

"Cool guys do not play footsies. You're seeing shit, Wes. Been to the eye doctor lately, bro? Think maybe your age is catching up to you."

It seems this is their method of choice, now - deny, deny, deny. They are Soul and Maka, best friends, childhood pals, prom dates and roommates, never lovers, never to the public. It sort of stings, for a moment, as she watches Soul drop down to sit, scowling. Stings, because she thinks of his hands, and how right they've felt in hers, or the way he kisses her brow goodnight, how he watches her as she moves through the room, early in the morning, through sleepy eyes. It's special, to her, what they share, what she feels for him - special, and stifling it, even now, leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

But this is what she wanted, isn't it? Take it slow. Give herself time to adjust to such newness in their relationship. And Soul, with his family - of course he wouldn't want to spill the beans to Wes, not yet; god, his mother would have a field day, knowing her youngest born wasn't as lonely as she thought, that he was on his way to his own happily ever after.

She burns thinking about it. Happily ever after. In secret.

.

It's not like it's anyone's business but theirs anyway. What's the big deal? So what, sometimes they kiss each other. Sometimes, they sleep together, and sometimes Maka doesn't wear pants and it's not weird, not really; they're comfortable with each other, in whatever odd, halfway state of mind they've begun drifting, and she can't understand why anyone else would care so much.

She does not know how she feels about marriage. It's… weird. And kind of terrifying; once upon a time, Mama and Papa had been stupid in love with each other, despite everything else, had had the world at their feet, nearly wildly successful, and then - and then Mama had gotten pregnant, Papa had bought her a ring, and ten years later there were divorce papers and a pigtailed daughter watching her mother slam the door as she left and never looked back. It's terrifying, thinking about how a promise of forever can be broken so easily, and- and Soul-

It can't happen like that. She just can't. She loves him, god, she loves him, but- and she trusts him more than anything else, but losing him like that would be catastrophic. He's Soul, and before he is her maybe-boyfriend, he is her oldest friend. Her other half.

A ring on their fingers cannot change that. Can't cement it. Just a frivolous little jewel, right? Something for her to inevitably lose or break, something for Soul to stress needlessly over.

Maka groans and pulls her night shirt over her head. It's all so annoying. Of course she loves him, and of course she wants to be with him, but it's all so needlessly complicated! There are too many variables to worry about, too many what-ifs. Everyone teases them about being a thing, but what if Soul's parents don't actually approve of him dating a nobody like her? What if Mama is right, and men just cannot be trusted?

What if she'll never be ready, and Soul will be left to wait and grasp at her coattails forever?

The bedroom door clicks shut. Hall light washes over the walls before wiping into darkness again, and Maka looks over her shoulder to watch Soul pad his way over to her.

He rubs the back of his neck and yawns. "The devil has finally been put to sleep."

"What, without Egyptian cotton sheets?"

Soul grimaces, then rubs his shoulder. "He's such a princess. I told him we don't have the disposable income he has to just blow on things, but does he care? Noooo. His skin is sensitive. He needs silk."

"You're kind of a princess too, you know."

"I resent that. My eyeliner is 45 bucks, not pushing triple digits. I'm not putting cheap shit near my eyes."

She should laugh, but the tightness in her chest is still leftover from lunch, and she's never been very good at hiding how she feels. Heart on her sleeve Albarn, now and forever, and he is Soul, and his expression softens, blinking at her, eyes warm and laser-bright.

"You okay?"

No, but how can she explain the sinking feeling in her stomach? Sorry, Soul, but watching you deny your feelings for me made me sad? What is there to say? She is needy, and she doesn't know what to do about it. Her feelings don't make sense, and everything is new. She is scared, and she'll never admit it. Romance makes her annoyingly vulnerable.

Maka shrugs instead. Flings her hair elastic at her desk and then melts bonelessly into her bed, groaning. "I don't know."

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and he crawls his way over to her carefully, springs squeaking. Her window's cracked open, and the night air is chilly, but his skin is warmer than anything else and she's intrigued; watching the way his face heats up as she runs a hand up his arm is almost cathartic. It's powerful, having any bit of control over his expression; Soul bites his lip as she trails her way down his torso, slipping curious fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

He sighs, and that something sinking in her gut stirs, blooms, melts her alive. "Maka."

Mesmerized by the way the muscles in his abdomen move as he flutters beneath her touch, she hums, distracted. His eyes are loaded guns, though, and before she can further explore such uncharted territory he's lurching over her, taking her wrists into his hands and pinning her down. Forehead to forehead, he breathes her name again, and Maka forgets, for a moment, how to do such a thing herself.

"Maka."

"... Soul," she manages, finally. "Soul, what?"

His lashes are so pretty. Long, and fluttery, and- it's not fair, who gave him the right to have eyelashes so long and graceful. "What'd he say to you?"

Oh. Oh, right. That. The thing she's been overthinking for nearly half a day now. Funny, how she can flip-flop between such extremes - daydreaming about the morning, and they way he'd kissed her, made her feel warm and careless with just his lips, and then worrying over whether or not she should spill the beans to Wes, if Soul is embarrassed to be with her, trying to figure out why she'd been so hurt by the denial she'd been using to shield herself only moments before.

She doesn't make sense. "I don't make sense."

"You've never made sense, brainiac," he says, then leans back, smiling sleepily. "It's your thing. I can't keep up with that big brain of yours."

"I'm sorry."

"Eh, I'm used to you. Wouldn't change you, you know that." Soul shrugs. "But really, Maka, what's bugging you? 'Cause if Wes was running his mouth, I can say something, I guess-"

"No, no, he just-" Wants to know the truth? "... He's just like everyone else. He wants to know too much."

"Too much?"

"About us," she says, and Soul's fingers inch their way to hers, too. Fingers laced has always been their thing. It gives her courage. Makes her feel like she can do anything, no matter the challenge. "Like everyone else does! What does it matter, if we kiss each other? Why does everyone want to know about it so badly? I-I mean, of course I love you, a-and I'm happy with you, but-"

"- But it's none of his business," Soul finishes, with a curious set to his brow. "Yeah, I know."

It's none of his business, but there had still been a part of her, no matter how small, that'd wanted him to tell the truth. And it makes no sense.

Maka swallows and leans her head back, glaring at the ceiling. "I hate it. Everyone's so nosy. I don't even know what I'm doing, so how am I supposed to reason it out to them? Am I dating you?"

He flops down next to her, one hand still in hers, and squeezes tight. "I mean, we make out."

"I think friends make out sometimes?"

His laugh is brief, but free. "We're friends too, though. And we make out. And I kind of really love you a lot, so." She's tugged forward, and he's right there, again, so close she could nearly count every snowy lash. "I think we're dating?"

God, they're so backwards. "Do you want to date me?"

"Did you miss the part where I said I love you? I just, I'unno," he shrugs, then, leans forward to kiss her nose, and she feels herself go pink, annoyingly so. "Thought you were unsure, so I didn't wanna push it. Some things take time, right? Good things come to those who wait. And I'd wait forever for you, if that's what you want."

The tightness constricting her chest fizzles and makes way for the familiar confusing, stifling heat she so associates with him these days. Comfortable, but strange, and new, and - and she's never felt this way with anyone else, so how is she supposed to put a name to it? She thinks of him then, with paint on his face, butterflies, and her back against the living room carpet, as he repaid the favor, and her heart is impossibly full.

"What if you have to wait forever?"

"... Do you not want to date me?" And try as he might go hide it, Maka can see the exact moment his hope breaks.

"N-No, I- I mean yes, I want to date you, but-" She is the worst at this. "What if you have to wait forever for me to get my shit together? I don't- I don't know if I'll ever want to get married, Soul, or have kids. What if I never want kids, and your mom thinks I'm a terrible, selfish woman, and you'll never have cute little babies to snuggle with, and-?!" And how is she supposed to breathe, knowing she could be holding him back from such mythical normalcy? She is a deathbringer, a legacy desperately grappling for a semblance of routine, and how can she continue on, knowing he may never have these expected things so hardwired into a relationship? "... I don't want to hold you back."

He leans back. Stares at her. Sort of looks like he's swallowed something sour. "Who said anything about marriage?"

"Wes!" She squirms, tugging at her hair. "Everyone! Everyone talks about marriage! Kid is married, for goodness' sake, and Blake's head over heels for Tsubaki!"

Soul shakes his head, cheek pressed to her pillow. There are connotations, having him in her bed, and they're not lost on her. White hair on her pillowcase, long legs tangled with hers, in a place so privately hers. "I didn't say anything about marriage, though."

"Do you want to get married someday, Soul?"

He fidgets, then, finally uncomfortable. She squeezes his hand in hers to offer back some of the courage she'd borrowed. "I don't know. Maybe? It's not really something I'd thought about a lot before…"

"Before?" she squeaks.

"... Always just kind of thought I'd be with you forever. I just never really thought about the reason, I guess," he admits, shrugging, and barely, she can make him out in the dark, blushing a pretty pink. He's cute, and it frustrates her; she shouldn't want to kiss him, right there on one rosy cheek, not while they're discussing serious things like the future of their maybe-relationship. "You're a part of me. No matter what, I'm going to be around you. And if that means marrying you, I'm down? But if not, that's… that's still cool. I just want to be with you, Maka. In whatever way you'll have me."

She sort of feels like hiding her face in his shirt and never coming up for air again, but it is unreasonable and childish, to avoid her problems. Talking it over will keep them from dancing around each other again, like marionettes, but it's hard, putting what she feels for him into words. And it's frustrating, being the bookworm between them, the one who so prides herself on vocabulary and silly things like IQ scores, and not being able to properly communicate.

So she sighs instead, and mashes her free hand over her face. "I'm bad at this."

"... I'm not better," Soul says, voice gruff. "I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, half of the time. I just like being around you, and I'm kind of clingy, so-"

"You're not," she half-laughs, deep in suffering. "I'm the clingy one. I can't seem to go a few hours without thinking about you, even when I'm at work. It's annoying. I think Kid's going to talk to me about it and I don't know how to tell him I've become a useless blob who can't seem to do anything but daydream about kissing. It's just-" she grasps for him, then, the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. "... It's not me."

Her admittance seems to fuel him, and his arm is heavy as it links around her waist, pulling her flush against him. They've cuddled in bed thousands of times, but there is still a whimsical newness to it, now that they're sort of together. Which reminds her. "Are we dating?"

"... Thought we were?"

"We haven't gone on a date," she says, and he raises his brows, seemingly surprised. "Can we be dating if we've never gone on a date?"

"Could fix that, you know."

But who will pay? They split rent and all of the bills. They're not married, but they've already started pooling funds. Heck, they've been doing it since they were in college. It's not like one can treat the other, this way - they've long since become a well-oiled machine, cohabiting together, functioning together.

They're so backwards.

She answers him with a kiss instead. And Soul seems to have no problem with dropping the conversation, because his hands grasp her hips and hold tight, and his tongue is so warm against hers, so delightfully sly. They're backwards, but she supposes they'll just have to retrace their steps, maybe figure out how to find their way without getting all turned around again.

(He's solid over her, and how can she think of anything else, when he's got a hand in her hair and the other inching close to an aching breast?)