Saturday morning finds them tangled in her sheets and her hand splayed over Soul's chest. There's a certain charm to how she had gravitated toward him during the night, forehead ending up pressed against his shoulder. He had rolled onto his back, head tilted toward her, hand over hers. It feels so natural, so right, like they've done this millions of times before.
Now she's hoping they forget what it's like to sleep apart.
Propping herself up, she cups his cheek - so prickly, she could get used to this - and taps it gently, whispering his name. "Wake up… wedding time."
"Don't wanna," he mutters, nuzzling into her palm. "Wes can hire a new brother."
"What about me? I don't want to go without you."
"Stay," he says, the pull of the word wondrous. Skirting her responsibilities is a sin she promised herself and her clients never to commit, but as a suggestion coming from Soul, it's a given, an easy, alluring solution.
They could just skip. Stay inside, stay together. After all, the mutual understanding between herself and Soul screams that their relationship runs a risk once they leave her apartment. They might revert to the clumsiness that plagued them at the beginning of the year, when he freshly returned to Death City. They could lose each other.
This security, however natural, is too fresh, fragile.
She chooses to smile instead of kissing his forehead. "I'm going to shower and get ready."
Anything almond scented had been ruined for her since he relocated to LA. Washing up with the bar of soap Soul had bought her at the farmer's market only spurred a heavy sense of loss, but she vows to replace that sorrow with this newfound memory in the making - waking up next to him, better than they were before.
Whens she emerges, tugging self consciously at the ankle length dress that hugs her hips and accentuates her lack of breasts, Soul has changed back into yesterday's clothes and is in the process of banging around in the kitchen, the smell of eggs wafting to the rest of the apartment.
"We have to scarf these down because I just remembered I have a cat child at home and she needs to be fed and loved."
And again, Maka is endlessly jealous of a cat.
Pink stains his cheeks when he finally turns to look at her, but he stuffs his mouth with toast while she towel dries her hair in between bites of her breakfast. Eight rolls around, the lackadaisical morning draws to a close, and a distant panic grapples at her as he cleans up the kitchen by himself so she doesn't ruin her dress. The perfectionist in Maka is restless, distressed: she's not ready, she's going to be late, what if something goes wrong, what if...
"Can you help me with my hair? I'm thinking of an updo, but…"
"You don't know how," he finishes. Of course he does - he knows her well, probably expecting to follow her into the bathroom, sticking closely to her like perfume. Hopefully he's the kind that lasts, because scents fade and she and Soul have already been through hell.
She watches him drag a comb through her hair in the mirror, trying to learn the tricks of the trade, but his hands are distracting.
"You're saving my life, Soul." She twiddles her thumb as he works, touch light and confident. "I never did learn to do my own hair. Papa always did my pigtails when I was too little to do it myself, so that was the only hairstyle I knew for the longest. Now I know two… that one and a half ponytail."
It's a mistake to make Soul laugh, because it rings in hear ears and sends shivers down her spine. "You and Spirit did seem to get along better yesterday at the rehearsal - er, well, he seemed less… overbearing."
"Mhm," she agrees, glowing. Happy. Excited for the future and the changes it might bring. "We kind of talked. I think I hurt his feelings, but… but I think I'm less mad. A little. We're not completely okay but it was a baby step."
"Damn, that's good to hear, Maka. Feels good to be honest, right?"
More things hang unsaid, but they're not as debilitating. She and Soul still have plenty to discuss, but as he had said: problems can't be mended in one sitting. It takes time. Perhaps it's a never ending thing they'll do, reconvene to talk and work it out together, grow alongside one another.
"Thanks again, Soul."
"I'm your man, Maka," he reassures. "Best friend, business partner, hairstylist, former roommate…"
Boyfriend, Maka finishes in her mind, chiding herself for the wishful, schoolgirlish thinking, even if it's not too far off from becoming a reality. At least it feels like it, fitting together perfectly in her bed - his hand rests her cheek, guiding her to look at him, snapping her out of her daydream.
The air shifts. She thinks he is about to stitch their mouths together when he runs his fingers stroke through her scalp, readjusting bobby pins, fluffing, preening. Lowering her gaze, she focuses on not decoding his unsure breathing as he unhurriedly smoothes her hair until every lock stays in its designated place.
Minutes later, Soul steps away to admire his work. Maka, light headed under his scrutiny, glances into the mirror – gasps at the reflection of an elegant, loose curled side bun.
"How did you know how to do this?"
"I've been playing too much with flower crowns," is his easy reply, accompanied by a shrug.
She hums her approval, giddy, getting stupid butterflies and dangerous thoughts. She forces herself to un-notice that he is tall and handsome, and delicately sweet. And near.
Even if he hasn't fessed up, his actions strengthen Maka's confidence that he's the one that sent the flowers and the card: I still love you. No more doubting herself! How can his gentleness be anything but romantic? And he kissed her back on New Year's Eve, started to kiss her again -
Maka balls her fists, the emotion overwhelming. "I still have to put on my makeup…"
Momentarily tense as his arm glides around her bare shoulders to escort her out, she tells herself to un-think and un-know this whole morning, last night, in case it's only temporary. In case she's wrong. Tells herself to settle back into familiarity: considering him as simply Soul.
But she fails, and for once, it's a good thing. He's more than a best friend. More like a soulmate, her opposite, witty and funny when she's not, observant and introspective. Patient. He sits on the couch with her and holds up her mirror while she fills in her eyebrows and dusts her cheeks with blush, keeps track of the time as Maka tucks her mascara wand away in her bag.
"Welp, I'm sure it's hot as crap outside, and riding the motorcycle will mess up your hair." He heads over to the window, swinging his head from right to left to check out the traffic below before twisting the blinds closed. "Should we get a taxi?"
"That's so thoughtful of you," she chimes, trying out his sarcasm, struggling with her heels - it's not that she rarely wears them, because she's a fan of heeled boots, but fine motors skills aren't easy to master when she's still half asleep despite spending five minutes scrubbing her face in the shower.
Soul moves soundlessly, already crouched down and guiding her shoe strap through the buckle before she can register that he's the reason for the spike in her heart rate. After all this time of carrying around these feelings for him, of being near him, she thought the nervousness would ebb into a fulfilling calm. A buzz.
But, they could go through the motions for years, as they are right now, and it won't mean as much if she doesn't confess.
The thought of it makes her chest bump like an unbalanced dryer.
"Yeah, didn't think you'd want to look like a bird made a nest on your head."
She aims to karate chop his head, the height difference becoming too much of an obstacle, cupping his jaw instead, squishing his face together like a fish. "Haha, what did you say? That the cost is on you? Great, thanks!"
Joking, joking, of course, but Soul insists to pay her half as she holds the car door open for him when the cab arrives, the five seconds out in the sun searing her arms. He refuses to fasten his seatbelt ("It's a five minute ride, Maka!") and she'd wrestle him into submission if only she didn't feel naked in this dress, if she could be guaranteed not to undo her hair. Dress bunched up in her hands as they ascend the stairs, it occurs to her that this could have been their life together if she had shown up to their wedding.
Maybe. They're an odd pair: a dolled up, petite woman and a disheveled, gloomy looking man, and his neighbor's incredulous stares add further proof of their mismatching appearances.
"They probably think I'm a serial killer because I'm always threatening Blair," he mutters as he flips the switch, his empty apartment sluicing with light. Aside from the water and food bowl next tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, Maka doubts anyone who walked through would believe someone lives here.
"Here kitty kitty kitty kitty…" No cat in sight, Soul drums a fast paced rhythm on the counter, relieved when Blair shoots out from beneath the couch but jumps into Maka's unsuspecting arms, purring. "Rude! I'm the one who's going to feed you."
Maka drinks in the affection until she hands the cat off to Soul, glancing down her front and noticing black cat hair on her chest like miniature scars. She sees black, black ink, and suddenly the dress isn't baby pink but white, lacy, more expensive, more precious. Her hands shake, frantically rubbing away the blemishes without a plan in mind. "Oh shit, no no no! Not again!"
"It's fine Maka, I promise," he soothes, giving Blair the stink eye and putting her down next to her bowl. He holds Maka's hands in his, shushing her, reminding her that that was then and this is now; he has tape somewhere they can use as a lint roller. "The cat hairs aren't permanent, they'll come off, it's going to be okay."
But none of it registers. Solace doesn't exist when there's an alarm blaring in her head, reminding her that she's not perfect, not careful enough, not mindful. She sabotaged her own wedding and now she's doing the same to her best friend, to Wes, who treats her like family, who probably couldn't find it in his heart to be angry with her even if she purposely wrecked his wedding.
Ugh, not this again, this anxiety cutting her up inside like a ball of barbed wire. She had been doing so much better lately too, but nooo, she's at square one again, frozen as Soul pats tape on her, not even cognizant enough to flush when he runs it over her breasts, down her tummy. He's nothing but respectful and Maka loves him so so so much, she could kiss him to make sure he's real, because she doesn't feel much of anything except the deadness that follows a panic attack.
And guilt. Overreacting again, like always, those god damn absolutes showing up when they aren't wanted or needed. But Soul's here, tape discarded, her dress cleaned and good as new, Soul rubbing his palms up and down her arms, Blair meowing at his feet. Ears flattened against her head, looking up at Maka beseechingly as if to say I'm sorry.
There's no way Maka can be mad at a cat.
Soul offers Maka cold water, and sipping at it does mitigate her troubles, except now they're running late and he still needs to dress up. Traffic might pick up, the stop lights might run slow, there might not be parking - she could go ahead without him, but leaving without him isn't an option. What if they lose each other again?
"I'm okay, thank you Soul. Really, I'm fine now." What she can't admit is that she's not okay because his hands drop to his sides. They should stay on her. "Is there anything you want me to do while you get ready?"
Sheepish, Soul sinks into himself. "Uhm, I actually… have to get ready at Wes's place."
She raises her eyebrows, steeling herself for an ugly revelation. "Why?"
"Well, it's a long story, but…" He takes in a deep breath, and out with it comes the truth: "Blair used the groomsmen tuxes as a scratching post one day and Wes almost threw me out the window but he had mercy and didn't! He had another set rush ordered but he didn't trust me enough to keep them so he kept them at his place and I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but I didn't want to worry you! Everything's okay now, don't be mad!"
Soul Evans drives her crazy. "What!"
X
"Wes," Soul calls out gruffly when they reach Wes's place, Maka glimpsing an apologetic flinch on his face for the grain of habitual irritation that trickled into his voice. He thumbs through his keys, sticking one into the keyhole, knocking loudly before pushing the door open. "I'm here for my tux. I'm coming in!"
The view out of the penthouse's wall to ceiling windows never fails to make an impact on her, reminding her of how small she is compared to the mountains on the horizon, that there's no shame in appreciating the little things. From here, she can see the whole city, the cloudless sky, the Nevada sun blessing them on this day.
"I want big windows and a view like this if I ever move," she says, wondering if Soul would like the same.
He's not close enough ask, though, and she's not brave enough to speak. He wanders out of her sight, down the hallway. "Wes, we have company. Please don't walk out here naked."
"It's my house, Baby Bro, but I'll be glad to wear a towel over my junk if that makes you feel better!"
Though she can't see either of them, the sound of a pillow smacking against something - or someone - is unmistakable, the subsequent satisfied chuckles reassuring Maka that no ill will lurked behind the attack.
Soul's amusement shines through in his snickers: "You dumb melon farmer!"
"I sure am, and you're late. Tell me, did I hear Maka come in with you?"
She cups her hands around her mouth in a megaphone fashion. "Hi, you did! It's me!"
A hearty hello reaches her, followed by more commotion of doors opening and closing, Soul's sarcastic undertones, Wes's sprightly timbre. The latter slides into view, righting himself before he does the splits, socks apparently working too well.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he says, similar to Papa, Maka once again comparing the two, finding the good in her father by comparing him to a gentlemen. "I'm excited to see Tsubaki. It's not going to be the best day of my life until I'm with her."
Behind him, Soul peers at them from around the corner, towel slung over his shoulder. "I'm gonna use your shower, Wes."
"Hurry, then. And you can use my hair products too, I know how you are about your hair."
"Screw you," Soul says, disappearing again.
"What language," Wes muses, grinning. "Thank you for bringing him to me. He needs all the help he can get. Tell me - what's next for Maka Albarn after today's festivities?"
If he had asked that a few months ago, she would have responded with, "Leaving town." She can't get over Soul if she's constantly near him, near his family, when everyone in her life is linked to the Evanses. When she's his family. Take her relationship with Papa as an example: he's never far, but sometimes space cures what conversations and time can't. Distance hadn't helped the situation when he lived in LA because she had actively been trying to mend their friendship without talking, walking on eggshells.
Grieving.
But, now everything's different. Night changes people, after all, and so does touching. Funny how she can't imagine a whole day without Soul when two months earlier she had been going out of her way to avoid him. She still has so much left to say - how much she likes his dimple, how much she misses living together, wants to bake desserts with him, wants to make his side of the bed.
Confessing to Wes that she burns for Soul to be a part of her upcoming plans is embarrassing, though. So she opts for mystery. "Maybe I'll take a vacation, and then get back to work."
"You're… oddly predictable." Wes pulls on his earlobe, carefree. "Listen, Maka, can I be up front with you?"
She's scared, yeah, but she can't say no.
"I just want to thank you for being such a great friend. Planning my wedding, introducing me to Tsu, being there for my little brother…" He pauses, gulping, squinting away tears. "You've done an outstanding job because you're an outstanding person. You're amazing, you know that right?"
"So I've been told, " she says, thinking of Soul.
"And lots of people love you. Even Tsu's parents adore you, and Tsugumi thinks the world of you. I really do think of you as a sister." Wes glances back to the hallway, listening. Maka hears the shower turning off, Soul humming. Wes continues: "I love you. Tsubaki and Liz and Patti and Kim and Jackie love you too. Your mom. And your dad does, too."
There's sand in her throat somehow. Wes hit a sore spot; she swipes at her eyes, wondering when it won't hurt any more. Maybe what Soul said about taking things one day at a time applies to this, too. "Ahuh, I know."
At last, Wes asks what Maka saw coming: "And Soul loves you too."
If only. Maybe. It's a possibility.
"And you love him too, right?"
"I do." It's becoming easier to admit, but not to the person who needs to hear it the most. And even if she's reading him wrong, there's nothing wrong with how she feels, right? She's only human, making mistakes, so many mistakes - but she also makes rights. Good decisions.
"So you love each other," Wes sums up innocently. "But have you told each other?"
"Yes!" The bathtub incident plays again in her mind's eye, Soul not saying anything in response to her confession - had he misconstrued the real meaning behind her confession, taking it as a platonic admission? Maybe she could have been clearer, like Liz said, leaving no room for uncertainty. "But… I don't know if he knows how much I really care."
"I don't think even he knows how much he cares about you, but I know it's already a lot."
She can't help but beam at the possibility.
As if beckoned, Soul materializes, waving them over with a cant of his head as he saunters to the front door, hands stuffed in his tuxedo trousers. Foxy would be a great word to describe him, because damn.
"C'mon, Beauty, let's go - I wasn't talking to you, Wes."
Maka is weak.
X
For once, she's not crying from sorrow.
Maka stands off to the side of the platform, semi-hidden behind the creme, silky drapes covering the walls. Aside from Angela mistakenly throwing the plastic symbolic rings at the bottom of her basket into the pews and showering petals directly onto the couple, which everyone found endearing, the wedding's gone beautifully.
Both clad in matching flower crows, Wes and Tsubaki have eyes for no one but each other, radiant, committed.
"I do," Tsubaki says, Wes echoes her when it's his turn, and when they kiss, Maka cries. Part of it stems from the fact that she could have been an Evans too, but that's not what prompts more tears - it's because now her family is more complete.
X
Someone catches her arm after Wes and Tsubaki run down the aisle, people piling to follow and wave them off, confetti fluttering to the floor.
Maka knows it's him before they make eye contact. "Soul!"
"Hey." He's shy, worrying his lip, fingers combing through his hair, messing it up. "I thought we could spend some time alone? I have something to tell you… but, everyone has to be gone. It can only be me and you."
They hold hands, Maka's tummy tingling. Absentmindedly, tracing the lines on his palm, she burns the moment in her memory. Letting him lead her to a clothed table off to the side where they wait for the last of the guests to leave, Soul picks confetti off her hair, balancing one on the tip of his finger, telling her to close her eyes and make a wish.
Hmm, what else could she want? Maybe a thousand more words that mean I still love you, so she can tell him exactly how she feels, maybe more strength, definitely more nights with him.
"Keep your eyes closed," he instructs, and she does, deciding to kiss him when this is over. She can't stand it anymore - if she can't find the right way to confess, she can use her lips, finish off what she started at Wes's New Year's Eve party, put his hand on her neck.
When she opens her eyes, he's holding a bouquet of red roses out to her, looking demure, so cute. "I made you these."
She could cry, but she accepts them instead, smelling them, the petals soft against her nose. "I got your other ones too! From our anniversary!"
And in an instant, the mood dies.
Soul tries to mask his utter confusion by blinking too fast, too much. "What other ones?"
The smile is permanently tattooed on her face, though the mirth behind it dissipates. "You know, the ones you had delivered to my office…"
Awkward. Uncertainty flashes on his face, caught off guard, mincing his words wisely. "Mmm… at the time, I didn't know where your office was..."
"Oh."
Well, isn't she stupid, why hadn't she thought of that sooner? He had to ask for her address, didn't he? Complimented her decor, said the loveseat was comfy, because he had never been there or stepped foot in her office until after the New Year. And Soul wouldn't have ordered flowers to remind her of the day she bailed out on their pact - no, he'd never intentionally harm her with such a passive aggressive act, such a lie.
"It wasn't you," she breathes, the realization asphyxiating. Walls are closing in on her, her maze walls, and she's going to be crushed underneath her own tangled up barriers because they're swaying, falling down. "But, it doesn't make sense, who else could it have - oh, it must have been Papa!"
A shriek threatens to escape her body, the battle to keep it contained scratching her throat, only the silence roaring around them. She had imagined slow dancing with Soul at the reception, but a haze quickly forms around that hope. Too bad there's no pounding music, no bass rewriting her heart rhythm. Of course it was Papa - he invades her space always, oversteps boundaries, acts without thinking! Lies. Hurts her, always, even if he means well.
No one notices her world crumbling because no one's here to witness it except Soul, who seems so far away, at the end of her tunnel vision, unreachable.
"Why would he do that to me? The card didn't sound like him at all. He would have said 'I love you best of all' not..."
Not what she's been wanting to hear: I still love you.
She chokes, literally chokes, face hot, eyes stinging. If she blinks, the tears will let loose, so she stares and continues to smile bravely with the genuineness of a porcelain doll.
"I'm sorry - I didn't send you any flowers. But, what did the card say?" Desperate - that's what Soul is, reaching out to comfort her, freezing up when she backs away instinctively.
Hair falling out of the side bun he had meticulously brushed as Maka shakes her head, she hugs herself to numb the pain thundering through her core, breathing heavy as she turns to leave. "I have to go… Somewhere not here."
Damned if this isn't a déjà vu a replay of the New Year's kiss, the second one, except his hand isn't scorching against her neck. She is disarmed, but not pleasantly, a little high off the thrill despite the fear that sprung up and paralyzed her. No, she's heartbroken, disillusioned, her bubble burst, her hopes up. Stupid. She should have asked him outright if he had sent the bouquet. Should have been smarter, more open, less afraid, shouldn't have assumed or read too much into his loving gestures and looks.
God, the looks. How could she have been so wrong about her best friend?
"Are you coming back?" his voice calls after her, but it's more of a plea: come back soon, I'll wait right here.
No doubt lies in her mind that he's excellent at waiting, his patience limitless. He had waited long after he should have at their wedding, late into the night they both love so much. Soul Evans keeps his promises.
And maybe that's just it - maybe she needs to follow through with at least one promise too, starting with herself.
