Note: I own nothing but my own thoughts and feelings. I hope you guys enjoy this little bit of fluff, sorry it's been a while, but know I always appreciate the feedback you give me. I'll be posting something I've been working on for the past few moths on the 21st, so look out for that. Hope you've all been well!
He craves it, but never tells her.
Most of what he remembers from early childhood comprised of big parties, white noise, all the company in the world to be had, but a bone deep loneliness that he never could quite shake. Physical affection was a rare occurrence. He got the occasional fond embrace from his brother, or a kiss on the cheek from his mother, and a semi-annual smothering from his Gran, but that had been the extent of it.
That first time when he and Maka met and she extended a hand to him, he couldn't help but accept. Who could blame him? She radiated warmth and acceptance, something that he had felt so rarely for all his life. There was no reality in which he could have possibly turned her away. The moment their palms made contact, their fingers curling, something snapped into place, one of the fissures in his soul mending itself.
It might not have seemed like such a big thing to anyone else for the mostpart, but he knew better.
From that point on, he would catch himself thinking about how warm her palm had been, and how much he'd like to hold it again, when he was feeling scared, or tired, or just affectionate (a feeling he had a tough time learning how to deal with at such a late age).
Wanting to hold his nerdy meister's hand was so lame though.
His father would sneer at such greediness, such impropriety. What was so great about slapping your sweaty palm together with someone else's?
Unsanitary and unnecessary.
God, he wanted to hold her hand so badly though.
He learned to stifle the feeling as much as possible fairly quickly, sure to never let on to her how strung out he was for affection. The carefree, cool persona (and a persona it was, no one knew that fact better than he himself) would be blown to bits if everyone in Shibushen knew he was a closet snuggle-bug in the making. Jeez, what if she actually started holding his hand? Would it get worse? Would he be asking her for hugs all the time then and talking about his feelings?
Absolutely unacceptable.
Except, a while into their partnership, she picks up a little habit.
She'd casually slip her fingers between his own, sometimes not even bothering to make a mention of it, other times insisting that physical contact would increase their resonance rate. He tried to repress the chaotic, loving melodies that would spring up in his heart, tried to ignore the way more and more of those fissures would be spackled over and soothed by a simple brush of her hand.
It was too wonderful to completely ignore, though. He'd find himself daydreaming about sneaking an arm around her waist, tucking her flyaways back behind her ear, kissing a rosy cheek-
He had to keep it cool though.
The first time she does it, they're almost sixteen, just starting to grow out of their awkward stages, still trying to shake out the leftovers of their lanky limbs and random acne and terrible mood swings (which he can admit now, he had too, it wasn't just her).
He had been making some Velveeta mac n cheese, the absolute best of the worst in his opinion, and she had come up behind him to inquire about that night's menu. Warmth made contact with the bare skin of his back beneath his worn cotton tee; her hand, he had realized, and it was such a shock to his system he could hardly compose himself enough to reply.
That night, they had sat on the couch, her calves draped across his lap as they ate their blood congealing treat and watched some mindless sitcom silently. Neither of them made any mention of the shift that had occurred.
But that night had been the catalyst for something wonderful. Beautiful, and dangerous, and wonderful.
His composure could only remain intact so long. She would graze her fingertips along his ribs when she would pass him in the hallway, shoot little smiles over her shoulder at him, lean up against him on the couch after their evening showers and comb her fingers through his hair until it fluffed out in every direction. He never dared to reciprocate, risk the chance of breaking the spell and never receive those little touches again.
His breaking point was a day where he was pathetically unprepared for the intense feelings of self loathing that his demon was presenting to him. It had been a school day, but he couldn't find it within himself to drag his lazy, worthless ass out of bed, too tired from staring at the ceiling the whole night, too tired from the mere thought of having to ever emerge from his room to face anyone ever again.
He had been dreading the moment when Maka would realize he had never risen from bed, never gotten dressed or prepared, the moment she would kick his door in and tell him that goddamnit they were late.
He had curled deeper into his covers when he heard his door creak open, but caught the scent of french vanilla tea, felt the his bed shift beneath him when she sat beside him, one of her hands cradling a mug of tea for him, and the other working through his hair. Her fingers tip massaged at his scalp lightly, and he felt himself relax into the cushion, heard the volume of his own hateful thoughts for himself quieten until it was just a dull thrum.
Just when he was sure he would fall asleep, she decided to slip beneath his covers, ignoring his grunt of confusion and pulling him toward her, taking one of his arms to loop around her waist and placing his ear to the area just beneath her collarbone. He could hear her heartbeat, strong and steadfast, feel her flushing skin warm his cheek, and he had no energy left to deny that it was something he needed, and loved, and cherished from her.
He pulled her tighter to him, and they fell asleep that way. When they woke up in the afternoon, she had chided him for drooling on her, joking about how gross he was with a little smirk playing at her lips.
Now, as he stands in their kitchen making real, gourmet mac n cheese, like gran would make for him and his brother, he's no longer startled when a warm hand slips up the front of his shirt, Maka's palm resting gently on his abdomen as she tells him that she can feel his pulse, he needs to drink more water.
He grins to himself before shutting off the stove-top and turning to face her. He had never had to tell her what he needed, not in this case. She had just known. Learned, from the first time their hands had touched and onward.
He kisses the little wrinkle in her brow, telling her not to be such a worrier, before he pulls her into an embrace, his lips finding hers.