December 26th
"Are you sure you won't come to church?" Victoria asks for the fourth time over brunch. "I'm sure everyone would love to see you, and meet Maka."
"I don't go to church, mum, and I saw plenty of people over Christmas - could probably go without seeing anyone for another year and a half." Soul stuffs another bite of eggs into his petulant face.
"Don't say that," Victoria snips. "Well, at least do something productive with your day instead of lounging around. Maka?"
Maka wonders if this is how Soul feels whenever her parents ask his opinion about her personal life. "I'll stay here," she says in a half whisper.
Soul's mother squints, and Maka can see her mulling over whether to push about Soul any further. They'd had quite a talk about that already - Victoria had admitted she has a tendency to get overbearing, the empty threat about tuition money being a prime example. Maka could understand to a point; she could be like that too, but not to the same degree (she hopes anyway.) Victoria closes her mouth, collects her coat and purse with no further comment, and leaves, trailed by Robert and Wes.
Soul heaves a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair. "Free at last."
"Oh, it's not so bad," Maka chides.
"No, but church is. Christmas service is okay 'cause of all the music, but normally it's not nearly so interesting."
"I can imagine. So, what do you want to do with that free time?"
"Uh, go back to bed, obviously." Soul grins.
"I might go for a walk then, if you're gonna nap," she comments.
"You're not gonna come?" He sounds so much like a kicked puppy she almost wants to offer to cozy up and be his dumb teddy bear on a permanent basis.
"I kinda wanted to go play in the snow," she says wistfully. "Who knows when I'll see any again."
"Oh man, shit, it really doesn't snow over on the other coast - I've just been taking it for granted."
"Yeah, I gotta make the most of it before we fly home."
"Let's go ice skating then," he announces unexpectedly.
"How? I didn't bring skates - I don't even own any."
"Oh, we can find some. The attic is chock full of childhood goodies mum refuses to donate, and I bet mine from like… sixth grade will probably fit you."
"Ah!" Maka squeaks in excitement. "Okay, let's do it."
With childlike glee, Soul starts up the stairs, climbing two at a time until they reach the drafty but impeccably organized attic.
"I can't believe I didn't take you out there before, it's like the thing we used to do in the winter." He unstacks a couple boxes to reach the one labeled by the proper name, year, and season.
"Wow, your mom really is a packrat."
"She hides it well." Soul snorts and pulls out a pair of ice skates. "Try these on."
They're snug, perfect over wool socks, and Maka can just picture a gangly eleven year old Soul gliding across a frozen pond only to faceplant in a snow drift.
"Should be good." She grins.
"Let's get going then - they won't be at church forever." Soul's energy comes in short, infrequent bursts, and right now he is stoked. He hurriedly digs through a middle school box to find more winter clothes Maka never knew she needed. Some extra layering later and they're ready to brave the cold.
The pond is in the back property down a short trail through a little grove of woods, and Maka bounds through the snow the whole way. She's been inside so much that the cold air invigorates her. Soul is perfectly happy to let her frolic, romp, fumble, and fall her way through breaking a path in knee deep snow.
The water is frozen over, and the scene looks like something straight out of a hallmark card; Maka can't wait to get out and fly. Soul is clearly excited too, already strapping on his own pair of skates.
"You want some help up?" he asks. Maka can't help but be surprised at his ease on the ice - prone to winter couch-bound hibernation as he is - but she supposes he must've had plenty of practice. Besides, the glistening white is a little more inspiring for winter sports than forty five and rain for months on end.
"I actually did some roller derby for a year or two back in school." Maka wobbles to her feet. "How different can it be?"
"Not very." Soul grins one of those grins that half makes her want to punch him and half to tackle him and kiss it off. "Come on then!"
He takes off across the pond with Maka in hot pursuit, almost falling and shrieking with laughter. The best way to stay upright is to keep going forward.
She darts across to a snow bank; now is her chance to complete her unfulfilled dream of a snowball fight.
The woolen gloves Soul has supplied her with aren't the best for packing powder, but dammit if she isn't going to try - even if they get a little wet in the process. Maka lobs a lopsided ball at Soul, which misses target by a foot (not for a lack of strength, but coordination.) It goes sailing straight past his shoulder.
"Your aim kinda sucks," Soul jokes, stopping to make his own snowball. "No wonder you suck so much at basketball."
A snowball smacks her in the chest and Maka's mile wide competitive streak comes roaring to the surface. What she lacks in aim, she makes up for in speed and agility. Dumping armloads of snow on Soul from behind is the name of the game.
One particularly vicious dump later and Soul yelps. "Hey! That just went down the back of my neck!"
"Sorry, sorry," Maka apologizes, not sorry at all. "You want a truce?"
"Maybe if you let me shove snow down the back of your shirt," he retorts. "Gotta make it even."
"Try and catch me first!" She zips off, twisting occasionally to see if he's going to chase her. Soul follows with long, leisurely strides, not exactly the quick race Maka expects. She's nearing the far edge of the pond when she has the idea to turn and skate backwards, a move she often tried on roller blades.
"Look, Soul, I'm moon walking."
"Calm down, Michael Jackson," he scoffs. "Just 'cause it's backwards doesn't make it moon waking."
"Whatever, you try - oof!" Maka's feet abruptly slip out from under her when she hits an unexpected slick patch. She lies on her back in the snow drift trying to regain the wind that got knocked out of her; she supposes it must've been a product of the icicles dripping from a tree branch hanging over the water.
"Hey, you alright?" Soul calls.
Maka sits up just enough to see him pick up the pace to dart over.
"Be careful, it's slippery there," she tries to warn, but it's too late; Soul is on top of her.
"Sorry." Soul spits snow out of his mouth and lifts his knee from where it's wedged between her legs, though she's not sure that straddling her is really any better. "Are you alright?" He repeats.
"Yeah." Maka breathes. "Not sure how we're gonna get up, though." She's not sure she wants to get up at all.
"Probably crawl over there to get better footing." Soul nods his head away from the tree but doesn't move. "Hey, are you cold? Your lips are kind of blue."
"Are they? I don't feel cold." Burning would be a more apt description.
"We should warm you up." Soul's breath feels icy on her flushed face - she's not sure he could do much warming with his lips but she'd sure like to try. He leans his forehead against hers.
"Yeah?" she challenges. He peeks at her from under hooded eyelids, but their mouths are still inches, not millimeters, apart. The distance might as well be a mile. This is ridiculous - he's clearly not going to plant one on her no matter how much she purses her (apparently blue) lips. She needs to take matters into her own hands.
Maka throws an arm around Soul's shoulder so she can properly grip the back of his neck. She gets just a couple fingers against his skin and he makes a noise like a dog getting its tail shut in a door.
"Jesus Christ, your gloves are wet and freezing." He yanks her hand back around between them.
"Ah. I didn't ruin them did I?!"
"Just look at your hands!" Soul snaps. He pulls the thin glove off and exposes pale, yellowy white skin. "No wonder you're so cold, can you even move your fingers?"
Maka curls them slowly, wincingly into a fist. "I really didn't feel cold," she murmurs.
"Just because you don't feel cold doesn't mean you don't get cold." He takes both her hands to his mouth and puffs foggy dragon breath over them. Maka isn't keen to admit she can't really feel it.
"We gotta get you inside," Soul mutters, tugging off his own water resistant mittens and pulling them gently over Maka's smaller hands. He rolls off of her to the side, then drags her with him until they can get back on the ice. The journey back across the pond is utilitarian and joyless.
They get back to where they'd left the snowboots and Maka's about to take the mittens off to change out of the skates when Soul stops her.
"You really feel good about shoelaces with icicle hands?" He kneels in front of her and starts loosening the skates.
"I'm not a kid." It comes out higher pitched than she'd like, but embarrassment has a strangle hold over her vocal chords. She feels like a stupid child with Soul tying her shoes.
"Your socks are wet, too," Soul mutters, still sounding a little angry. "How are your toes?"
"They're fine - don't worry about it, let's just go back." It's seeming more and more like he's mad at her for being so careless about romping around getting cold and wet. Soul just nods, pulls her heels firmly into her boots and tugs her upright.
The pace he sets is fast, and strangely uncomfortable considering Maka's usual business like stride. She still doesn't feel cold, mostly, beside the wind on her face, but she's somehow lethargic.
"Soul, wait," she huffs. "Slow down, my legs are stiff and my head is heavy. I don't think I've ever been so tired in my life." Nervous laughter bubbles out.
"You're not stiff and tired, Maka. You're cold - really cold." Soul rubs scalding hands against her cheeks and around her wrists and under the cuffs of her sleeves. "God, you're freezing. Fuck. Did the rest of your clothes get wet?" He starts feeling around the collar of her shirt and swearing profusely. It suddenly strikes her that the heat she feels from him this time is tangible and striking considering their usual relative body temperatures.
"I guess the snow got in when I was trying to break a path," Maka says weakly.
"Well stopping here is just making it worse. If you can't keep going, you should just get on my back."
"I can walk fine," she protests, and tries valiantly for another hundred yards, but the slower she goes, the more sleepy she gets. Eventually her pace and the frequency of Soul's furtive checkups reach a singularity; he stops in the middle of the path, slips off his overcoat, and crouches expectantly.
"Maka, please get on," he growls.
She's in a such a daze she just bumps into him and flops her arms instinctively around his neck. Soul throws his coat over the top of her, hoists her legs up, and starts jogging for the house. Smothered between his heavy coat and warm back, Maka could easily fall asleep. She tells him this and he jogs a little faster until he's depositing her on the bench in the foyer.
"Let's look at those hands." Soul pulls her mittens off and Maka sobers herself into wakefulness at the color.
"They're even worse," she wails.
"Oh, no, red is good." Soul breathes into her fingers again and rubs them roughly. The friction hurts. "Your body is actually doing its job. You know, for someone so hot blooded, you sure aren't built for withstanding winter weather."
"Not enough body fat - no insulation," Maka jokes, once again sleepy now that she knows red doesn't spell frostbite.
"Truly," Soul snorts, peeling off her hat and scarf. "You should change into some dry clothes."
Maka nods and fumbles with her buttons with clumsy fingers for a minute before Soul takes over the least sexy clothing removal session of the century. And here Maka had thought she was going to get smooched, but apparently she was delirious.
Having an elastic waistband, the snowpants should be manageable, if only she could get them over the damn boots. Soul pauses in removing his own outer layers to quizzically watch her struggle.
"You double knotted them," she explains in a whimper and Soul dips down to take her shoes off as well. Extra layers gone, Maka is left in her street clothes, and only when she feels how damp they are does she start to shiver. Violently.
"Hey, you're okay." Soul rubs her shoulders; the blood flow prickles. "Bring your hands over here."
He guides her to the kitchen and turns on the faucet.
"C-cold?" Maka's teeth chatter as her eyes boggle. How dare he turn on water that's anything less than scalding. "N-not warm?"
"Believe me, you don't want hot water quite yet." He holds her hands under the sink - it stings! "How's that?"
"Feels like it's burning."
"Good," he says roughly. "Well, not good it hurts, but good you're getting more feeling."
He slowly turns the temperature up until it actually feels warm. Her fingers still feel like lead, but she finds she can curl them easily.
"I would kill for a hot shower right now." Maka mutters, rubbing her hands together.
"You could use the master bathroom, you know - no one will be home for another hour, mum probably not until dinner," Soul says, tacking on, "there's a heated floor."
She's sold. "Where is it?"
"Down the hall by the staircase, through the bedroom. Remember dry clothes!" Soul calls after her as she speed walks away as fast as her trembling legs can carry her. For a minute, stripping her icy clothes off is actually colder than having them on, then she discovers the timer for the heat lamp next to the one for the fan. Every inch of her covered in goosebumps, Maka attempts to stand under the warm water, but it burns as much as the sink had. It takes a few minutes of awkward splashing to be remotely comfortable under the hot water. Once she is though, it's glorious, and only the click of the heater turning off reminds her to actually get out.
Maka turns off the water and bundles herself in no less than three fluffy towels before sitting on the closed toilet seat contentedly, her toes wiggling with new found feeling against the warm (warm!) floor. Her pile of wet clothes glares at her with sad reality, though, and she slowly sinks to lie down on the bathroom floor. With nothing dry to put on, this will just have to be her new home.
She doesn't know how much time has passed when there's a knock on the door. Admittedly, she'd been dozing. Initial fear of Wes, or Soul's father, God forbid, bursting in makes her lift her forehead from the floor. Dizziness drives it back down again and she curls back into the fetal position with a grunt.
"Maka?" Soul has his Worried voice on. "You okay in there?"
She grunts again.
"Can I come in?"
An affirmative grunt and the door is creaking open. Short hair tickles her neck - Soul is right there, his voice low, so low, in her ear.
"How's the floor?" He sounds a little amused but mostly still concerned as he tucks stray hair into her loosened towel turban. Her heart is sufficiently melted, probably as gooey as her limbs feel.
"'S comfy. I'm not leaving. This is my home now," she slurs.
"I think I'd miss you - besides, you're bound to trip mother and then she won't like you so much."
"Can't have that now, can we?" Maka rolls over with a groan, one hand in a steady grip on her elaborate towel burrito. Soul is crouching next to her and he takes advantage of her now exposed face by placing a cool hand on her forehead.
"Well, you officially no longer feel like a dead fish."
"Wow. Thanks for the high praise."
Soul surveys the room. "You forgot dry clothes, didn't you?"
"No," Maka lies.
Soul ignores her. "You want me to bring you some?"
That sounds a little too good to be true, but he is in nice mode afterall. She might as well go for gold. "Can I wear your fleece pajamas? The fluffy ones?"
"You're relentless!"
"Please?"
"Last time I let you borrow those, I didn't get them back for weeks." He's standing now, and Maka instantly misses his soft touch. He turns on the fan when he leaves, so she's left lying on her back watching the steam escape upwards until he returns.
"Here you go, you mooch." Heavy fabric falls on her face to the tune of Soul's teasing, her clean tanktop and underwear (she'd try to be embarrassed if they didn't live together) and his fluffiest fleece pants and oversized sweatshirt. "Come out of there when you're dressed." He coughs. "I made sandwiches."
She didn't realize how famished she is until this moment. "How many sandwiches?
"How many do you want?"
"Like, a billion."
"Why don't you start with say… two."
"Three," Maka bargains.
"You got it, Angel." The infrequently used pet name makes unwelcome heat bloom in her stomach, laden with sarcasm as it is. He leaves for the second time, letting her ungracefully wiggle into his clothes without getting off the floor. Fortified by Old Spice and boy smelling clothes, Maka braves the icy wind of 'room temperature' and returns to the kitchen.
She smells the chocolate before she spies the cocoa powder on the counter.
"Hey," Maka calls.
He turns suddenly. "Oh. Hey. How are you feeling?"
"Like death," Maka slides down the wall to sit on the floor. "I don't think I've ever been so exhausted in my life, or this hungry."
Soul snorts and passes her a plate of food. "Hypothermia is hard work."
Maka pauses, food in hand. "I did not have hypothermia."
"You were falling asleep in the snow." Soul turns his back with a growl, apparently very busy with his stirring. "And you didn't even notice! Un-fucking-believable."
"Sorry - you're mad." Maka curls her knees up.
He swivels to face her again, his face scrunched into a frown. "I am not mad."
He sounds so clipped, it makes her wince. "You sure sound like it."
"Sorry," he mutters. "You just… I was scared. You weren't in good shape, Maka, and it's not like you bounced right back either." He nods to her current state of sitting on the floor, ham sandwich tremoring in her hands. "But I'm not mad - at you, at least. Maybe some at myself for not taking more time to find better gloves and clothes for you. And then letting you roll around in the snow like that? I should've known better."
"I should have known better!" Maka retorts. "It's not your fault I was acting like an idiot."
"I mean, it kinda is. I'm the one who grew up with actual seasons. I could've said something, but you seemed fine and like you were having fun." He sounds so guilty, like he personally had dumped snow in her clothes like he'd originally been threatening.
"I was having fun," Maka grumbles. "A lot of fun, it was a fun morning."
A drop of water slides under the collar of her shirt from her hair. She tries hard to suppress the shiver it sends up her spine, but Soul catches her anyway.
"Jesus, you're still not totally warmed up, are you? Here, I think this hot chocolate is ready." He ladles a full mug for her and deposits it on the floor next to her before sliding down the wall himself. "Then you wanna go get under a pile of blankets? Take a nap?"
The suggestion is very tempting.
"I wanna watch a movie," she says, taking a sip from her drink. "Wow, this is good."
"Wes used to always make it after we'd go skating."
"I'm offended you haven't made this for me before." Maka takes another sip of heaven; it warms her core in a place she thought would never be warm again.
"It's his secret recipe - I'm actually breaking the rules making it for you."
"I'm honored then. Anyway, I haven't seen a TV around - do you guys have one?"
Soul snorts. "Yeah, a behemoth of a flat screen. It's downstairs in the den."
"There's another floor?! I thought this was the downstairs." Maka gasps. I've been here for a week - how did I not know about this?"
"Come on, bring your food and cup, I'll show you."
The staircase isn't even hidden, just behind one of the many doors Maka has yet to open. Down they go to a land of shag carpet and a plush, velvety couch, which she promptly collapses into. Soul sets their dishes down on a coffee table and opens a drawer to pull out an array of fuzzy blankets. He dumps the whole pile on her lap and it's heaven on earth. It's even better when Soul flops next to her and burrows in until his cheek is on her fleece-clad thighs.
She peels back the fabric from his face and straightens it out before retrieving her second sandwich.
"Where's the remote?" She asks around a mouthful of bread.
"Should be in the drawer of the table," Soul grunts and pulls the blanket back over his face. "Put on whatever you want, I'm gonna try to sleep."
After scrolling through a myriad of streaming services, Maka ends up just putting on a nature documentary and dozing. Sated with chocolate and carbs, she lazily buries her fingers in Soul's hair and drifts.
She wakes up to the click of a door closing and quick paced steps down the stairs.
"Oh, there you are, Maka," Wes says. "Where's Soul?"
She lifts up the edge of the blanket to show Wes his sleeping brother, then drops it back down.
"Man, he is out." Wes grins.
"Like a light."
"I see he made you my hot chocolate too, the traitor."
"He still kept your recipe secret - it was delicious, though."
"You're lucky I'm susceptible to flattery and soft on my baby brother."
"Lucky indeed." Maka lets an affectionate smile drift onto her face as she squeezes Soul's shoulder through the covers.
"You know, I'm onto you two." Wes' cordial smile gives away nothing.
"Wha-?"
"There's no way you guys are dating, the sexual tension is too thick. It screams pining."
"It's that obvious?" Maka squeals, utterly horrified.
"Not to most." Wes grins wider. "But I know my brother well. You love him, don't you?"
Maka chokes.
"Don't you?" he repeats.
She nods shakily, somehow afraid to say it aloud with the object of her (deeply intense) affection in such close proximity.
Wes smiles knowingly. "That's good, he could use someone who looks at him like he's worth something."
"He is worth something," Maka hisses.
"Well clearly I know that, and you know that, but it takes time to dig through years of bad self esteem. He's lucky to have you."
"I'm lucky, too," Maka blurts.
"Glad you think so. I trust you two to work things out eventually. Anyway, I'll let you get back to your nap and your giant Amazonian river otters." Wes pats her shoulder on the way back to the stairs.
"Wait! Wes!" Maka calls in a stage whisper. "Did he say something about me?"
"He barely says anything that's not about you." The man smirks without an ounce of mercy. "But it wouldn't be any fun to tell you what."
She's left with her mouth agape and gasping for words. He had talked about her to Wes! But that conniving older brother refuses to spill. Still, she can't help but let a confusing, doubt-filled sort of hope fill her. Her brain is packed with 'what ifs' and the constant stifling adoration she feels for this shark-faced human being. Her hand tenses in his hair, eliciting a drowsy and all together arousing groan.
"Maka? What's going on? You're not watching something scary, are you?" Soul peeks at her from under the blanket, eyes as droopy as ever.
"No, just a weird dream," she answers, apologetically smoothing back his hair. "Go back to sleep."
"What kind've dream?" Sharp teeth flash at her when he yawns.
"I don't remember," she says, unable to answer that the only thing she's thinking of, asleep or awake, is how much she wants to be with him.
December 30th
The sight of Soul ironing his crumpled suit triggers some sort of latent panic in Maka about parties and etiquette and not making a fool of herself. The words 'formal,' and 'gown' excite the girlier parts of her brain that often lie dormant beneath the ferocity. Somehow, these qualities coexist, though, and until now, she's been excited about wearing her dress and new hairpin for New Year's Eve. Now, something about the way Soul grits his teeth as he fights wrinkles sets her on edge, and not just the urge to say 'I told you so' in regards to keeping his clothes hung up.
Her voice comes out quiet, not exactly commanding attention, and she has to repeat herself before he looks up. "So what's this party going to be like anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, what do rich people even do? Do we have dinner?"
"No, but there will be people going around with those little plates with the toothpick food while everyone stands around talking about their yachts." Soul presses the steam button and the iron hisses to life.
"Are you serious?" She's incredulous. "That sounds boring as hell."
"Yup." The 'P' pops in such a pronounced way, Maka can't help but giggle a little. At least her laugh eases a small part of the incessant frown on Soul's face.
"Is it just your parents' friends then?"
Soul adds, "And whatever VIP classical musicians they deign to invite, and any of their kids they want to show off."
"Does that include Anya?" Maka jokes, not expecting the cringe.
"Don't remind me," Soul groans. "More than her, I'm worried her parents are gonna be pissy I brought you along instead of agreeing to be their gay daughter's beard husband."
"That is so unreal," Maka laughs. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were being sarcastic."
"Unfortunately, no."
"Well now I'm worried," she huffs and grabs a pillow to clutch to her chest where she sits perched on their bed.
"Don't be - you're good at small talk, everyone will love you." She can almost imagine he sounds a bit envious.
"So, everyone just dresses up and eats tiny food and talks?" It all feels so foreign, there's a need to clarify.
Soul holds up his clothes to admire his handiwork. "Pretty much. Plus dancing," he adds reluctantly as an afterthought.
"Dancing?!" That particular activity is definitely not her strong suit, and just the thought of it reminds her of Halloween and regret.
"Uh, yeah, but we don't have to."
"You mean you don't want to," Maka accuses.
"Not with your two left feet I don't. Hey!" He yelps when the pillow that had been held to her chest hits him in the face.
"Like you're any better," she scoffs. The thought of Soul dancing is comical.
"Uh, actually, yeah. Guess who had to take fucking ballroom classes forever. I'm a great dancer."
The comical immediately becomes the intriguing. "You can teach me then."
"What? No way." Soul balks, understandably - waltzing doesn't exactly match up with his precious macho image.
"I'll just assume you're lying then." Maka waggles her eyebrows, praying his pride will get the better of him and he'll take the bait.
"I'm not lying." Hook line and sinker. "I just don't wanna."
"Come on, don't you want to look cool?" She's playing all her cards.
"You're insufferable," Soul growls and stomps out of the room. For approximately two minutes, she's scared she actually offended him until he returns with a stack of a few records.
"Get over here then, bookworm." He places the needle from the turntable in the grooves of one record and slow jazz seeps out.
Maka practically leaps off the bed. "I thought your parents hated jazz? Is this really what's going to be playing? I want authenticity, Soul Evans," she scolds, though she's already reaching greedily for his shoulder.
"Oh no, jazz is fine for parties, just not for their son to play." Soul says darkly, taking one of her hands in his and resting his other palm at her waist. His shoulders crack when he straightens his back and standing this close it hits her just how tall he is. It makes her heart flutter dangerously.
"What next?" she breathes.
"Um, I guess you just need to learn the box step, so step back there, then left." He stares at their feet, his forehead pressed against her head in a downward-facing mirror. It's an awkward shuffle where Soul nudges her feet where they're supposed to go - all the while flexing his grip at her waist, pushing and pulling in time.
"Maka." His voice rumbles in her ribcage. "Let me move you."
She swallows thickly and tries not to look at her feet, tilting up instead to lean tentatively into his chest. He guides her in miniscule movements until she can step within the boundaries of their box without tripping over his feet. An almost imperceptible nudge at her waist throws her off guard though.
"What are you doing?" Maka squawks.
"Trying to turn you - graduating from boxland, silly. Be happy."
She's less than pleased with this development where she has to let go of his shoulder and he's pushing her away. But the dark blush tinting his face, made visible by being at arm's length, makes up for it.
"Now come on back." He's reeling her in now effortlessly; it's easier to let him lead when he's moving her where she wants to go. She miscalculates her strides a bit, over eager to be close again, and the result is colliding more forcefully than she intended.
"Oof," he grunts, steadying her hips but not pushing her away. Rather, it feels like he's actually holding her close on purpose.
She mumbles into his shirt, "My bad."
Slowly, he starts up their box again, this time moving around the room. "We'll work on that one."
"Well, you two look like you're having fun." Maka practically leaps across the room in surprise, wrenching out of Soul's grasp.
Soul growls, "What the fuck, Wes."
"I heard Sinatra and couldn't resist." The shit eating grin on the older brother's face is all the more telling after the short talk Maka had with him. "Maka, if you want a dance teacher, I can easily step in. I promise I was much more diligent in our lessons than my brother."
"La di frickin da." Soul grumbles. "Or you could leave us alone."
Was that annoyance, or jealousy? Over her? And dancing with her? Soul had been so against it before.
Wes arches an eyebrow. "Maka?"
"We're fine I think." She flicks her glance between the two of them, measuring her words. On one hand, she knows that Wes is messing with Soul purely for amusement. On the other hand, it had worked surprisingly well and her roommate is now bristling.
"M'kay. Bye Wes." Soul closes the door in his brother's face with a frustrated sigh. "Man, he is annoying."
Maka desperately wants to confirm what she thinks just transpired in the last two minutes, but the connotations are too much, so she stuffs her burning curiosity down deep to the same cell where she tries to lock up her equally scalding attraction.
"Should we try again?" Maka asks meekly, far too thirsty for that contact that reaches something akin to possessiveness.
"We should stop," Soul blurts. His hand finds his flushed face and rubs it as if that's going to help his telltale color. "I need some water."
He promptly leaves her more confused than ever, and she tries to fill the gap with the pillow she'd tossed at him. Without his hand, and his voice saying, 'let me move you,' all she's left with is apprehension for tomorrow.
