A/N: So this was written-a couple of years ago-for the SoMa 5 years later zine. Sorry it took many moons to get this up. :)
They need to talk, she knows this.
Walking through the quad on the way to the library with her weapon by her side, walking through the space they've come to know so well these past few years, Maka blurts it out suddenly.
"I think I want to go to med school."
She stops and he stops and he blinks at her. Soul is even more sleepy-eyed than usual, which isn't actually unusual so early in the morning; 8 AM has never been his favorite time of day. Maka would have been here at 6 since she has two exams on Monday, but she knew he'd insist on coming along and she'd had the mercy to let him sleep a few hours longer.
Paused at the steps, the library looms before them, a vast, columned building sitting on a dais. While massive and grand in its own way, it's still so different from their beloved Academy that she has a sudden pang of homesickness at odds with both the intimate familiarity she's come to have with the place and her current purpose.
Before she can say more, Soul surprises her with a shrug and an, "Okay."
He really must be tired, because she's just proposed veering off course, completely off plan, altering her life definitely, his life, too, if he's on board (and even if he isn't), and possibly even separating them if Kid doesn't agree, if any number of things—all at 8 AM on a Saturday morning when she damn well knows he was up most of the night playing Fortnite with Black*Star. They've both maintained their close ties to Shibusen via the internet; they're a little too out of the loop to get many mirror calls these days. Video games just happen to be more Soul's venue of choice than her own.
"We should talk…" she trails off, uncertain, his nonchalance leaving her off-kilter.
"Later. If you don't study now, you'll be a pain in the ass all weekend. I'll get coffee. Shouldn't be long." His back is to her when he raises one hand in brief farewell before shoving it in a pocket as he makes his way across campus.
Okay, and later, and I'll get coffee, that's—it? She's just dropped a bomb, just proposed taking this whole train completely off the rails, and that's all he has to say?
Maka had thought he would at least protest. Question. Something. Because this isn't the plan; this has never been the plan.
Hell, even the current plan hadn't been the plan, not at first.
Always they'd had one goal—to make Soul a deathscythe. But once that had finally happened, they were pretty busy just staying alive and dealing with the fallout from Asura's awakening before finally helping to deal with Asura himself. And after that, well, they were a deathscythe team; the DWMA would forever be their past, present, and future.
That is, until it wasn't.
Two years before graduating from Shibusen, when they finally had time to breathe again after everything on the moon, Maka slowly began to realize that she'd never experienced life outside of Death City, outside of a course determined by legacy and sheer grit, and surprisingly—to herself most of all—she wanted to. It wasn't that she didn't want her future with the DWMA—more that she wanted to know what else was out there first, to experience more than fighting and training and learning how to fight and train and, eventually, teaching how to fight and train.
So Maka had decided that after they graduated the DWMA, she wanted to go to college. It wasn't unheard of; Professor Stein had, and so had Mira Nygus. It definitely happened. And back then, as now, she knew she needed to talk to Soul first.
Taking the steps slowly, one by one, the memory makes her smile, an ache in her heart. He'd surprised her then, too.
It happened at dinner one night, Morte de Pasta—she'd offered to take Soul out and pay, "to celebrate a new year of school!" (But also, to ply him with some favorite food and hopefully make him receptive. He's always in a better mood after a good meal, that much hasn't changed.)
She'd waited until dessert—cannolis—and as his mouth was shoved full of chocolate and mascarpone, Maka finally showed her cards, the ones she'd been keeping close to her vest for weeks.
"So, I've been thinking about it." A deep breath, and his eyebrows shot up over his cannoli. The memory has her smile widening; she hadn't exactly been subtle.
"We'll be graduating in less than two years, which means we have to decide about our future. And I know we've talked about staying here, and I still want that, but—but—I'd love to take a few years away from Shibusen and go to college. Just—experience more of the world."
Soul had looked thoughtful as he chewed, putting down the remaining half of his cannoli. The seconds where he couldn't speak without showing off his dessert were some of the longest of her life.
"Yeah? College?"
"Yeah, college. I—a degree from the DWMA with grades like ours and a recommendation from Kid would get us in anywhere, and usually, meisters and weapons the Academy wants to retain, they're able to go elsewhere and learn essential skills." Soul had looked about to speak, then, but she really wanted to get it all out, so she kept going. "And I know you being 'The Last Deathscythe' might complicate things, but I really think Kid would be okay with it since it's been calmer since—since—everything—" She'd swallowed back the small lump in her throat, the thought of what they'd left behind on the moon still painful. Maybe trying a different life was for them, too. "—and we could still take missions on the weekend. Though—um—it's okay, too, if you don't want to, you know? I don't have to, or maybe you'll change your mind and want a different partner, and I'll—"
He'd scoffed at this. "Thought we decided we're in this together."
"We are." Maka had realized she was looking at her hands, so she'd raised her eyes to meet his. So warm, as always. "But, I mean, this wasn't the plan, so I get it if—"
"In it together means for the long haul, yeah? I don't mind going to college. Never did get to see much outside—well, never saw as much as I wanted when I was a kid, so it'd be cool to just be normal for awhile. Not a weapon and not an Evans, just some bum at school with mediocre grades and a nerdy roommate."
"Soul!" The indignation had been half-hearted at best.
"Anyway, yeah, it's cool."
And that had been that. No shock. No protest. Just—understanding. Maka had expected at least something, but maybe she should have known better, even then. Soul is her weapon, and while he questions when he needs to, or complains when she earns it, or advises when he can, he has always been content to follow her lead.
But maybe that's the problem, she thinks as she makes her way to her favorite little corner of the library. He's so content to follow her lead, to follow her to the ends of the earth as her weapon, that maybe he can't help but to follow her, period—and she doesn't want that, doesn't want him to sacrifice his dream for hers. He's a deathscythe—the DWMA is his place, and she's asking to take him away from that for even longer. Though—he can choose not to. They could go their separate ways. The thought hurts, but she can't just let him follow because he's used to it, either.
They definitely need to talk.
Is it just her, or is he taking his sweet time with that coffee?
Her bag unpacked, books spread out before her, Maka can't concentrate at all, not with her head in the proverbial guillotine, waiting to see if the blade will drop, so her thoughts drift further.
It's hard to believe it's senior year, that they have less than one year left, that they've been here for over three years now. Hard to believe how much has changed, how different things are.
School outside of Death City has definitely taken some adjustment.
Really, getting into school had been the easy part; with her grades and their status, Columbia was happy to have them both. Kid had the DWMA foot the bill as part of their operative training and enrichment funds in exchange for taking weekend missions, and their stipend includes a tiny two bedroom flat off campus. It's an ideal set up and they had been thrilled when they arrived. But Manhattan is large and busy, and Maka hadn't known it back then like she knows Death City, and while they've traveled plenty to similarly enormous cities, living in one is a bit different.
Then there's the school itself—an academic island amidst the chaos of Manhattan, littered with green spaces and old buildings. It's different from the DWMA, but the real difference is less about the space than it is about the people. Death Child through and through, Maka had only ever visited the outside world, but even then, it was as a meister—not a tourist and certainly not a resident. She'd known civilians are their own breed just from the new students who came in from outside, but actually living amongst them when they first arrived at Columbia was even weirder than when she'd first moved in with Soul, who, in those days, had seemed to have no knowledge of laundry, cooking, cleaning, or basic life skills, really. But meeting Soul was a long time ago, and by the time she got to New York, she'd long since forgotten how different he'd been until she finally realized just how different everyone is outside of Death City.
If Death Child speak had confused her weapon for years, it absolutely shocked her new classmates—people really had gone overboard when she told them her roommate was dead a few weeks in when he'd wandered off during class and she wasn't sure where he'd gone. Had calling 911 really been necessary? Maka still thinks they'd overreacted, but that incident had blown over, and eventually, she'd learned how to curb her Death City slang.
Their partnership is also something people don't quite get, not that they advertise the whole meister-weapon thing, but the bond they've always shared was then, and still is, constantly misunderstood and misinterpreted. Most people assume they're together; Maka supposes all the hand holding and closeness throws people off who aren't familiar with meister-weapon bonds, and she has stopped correcting them. Not only is it simply not worth the effort, but as an added (and admittedly selfish) bonus, this keeps most interested parties away from her weapon, though there are far less of them here. While Soul still looks like Soul—which is objectively hot—sharp teeth, red eyes, and white hair tend to stand out as "scary" to the world outside the confines of the DWMA, and his groupies here are more sparse, men and women who never quite got over their high school emo phase.
Of course, Maka has also gained some fans—being the MMA club champion has garnered a following that her scary "boyfriend" tends to keep at bay. Sometimes, Maka wonders if maybe it would be worth letting someone try, to experience the whole relationship thing, but when she thinks of her weapon, the thought flies out the window. She can't imagine feeling for anyone what she feels for him, and if he's not interested in adding a different type of partnership to their equation as a duo—and he's really never seemed to be—well, she's content to leave it where it is, to avoid ruining their strong bond by feeling too much of the wrong thing. These last three years, going to school together, taking the occasional mission, but mostly just learning and living together, have been the best of her life.
Maka knows that's part of her motivation for med school, for staying in this life longer, but it isn't all of it. She also loves learning, always has, and here it's not geared to fighting. The bio major is for the DWMA, the lit major for herself, but she loves both, and the thought of being able to heal people as well as she can hurt them—well, she likes it, likes it a lot. The DWMA needs doctors, and she can have her proverbial cake and eat it, too, by becoming one—live this life longer, drink knowledge to the lees, and eventually return to her legacy and be a better meister and operative in the bargain.
The major question has been will Soul be on board, a question he'd just too-casually answered a mere—she flicks her eyes to her phone on the table—30 minutes ago. Death, he's taking forever.
Is he really on board, though? Maka wants him to do what he feels is right, what he wants, not what she wants for both of them. It's not fair to make such a choice for him. But—if he isn't on board, does she even still want this? That's the real question beyond simply what Soul thinks, the one that haunts her, the one that has kept her awake many nights as she's contemplated the idea of med school.
And now, she's cycling through the same worries, uselessly. Soul isn't here, and it's not like she can resolve this on her own. Best to focus on her studies. Frustrated, she closes and shoves aside the book she's been staring at aimlessly and slides a different one into view. If Microbiology isn't distraction enough, maybe Austen will be.
Two pages into scanning her markings and margin notes, she gives up. The words are bleeding out of her head as fast as she can take them in, lifeless amidst wandering thoughts of what is he thinking?
Who knew Mr. Darcy couldn't hold a candle to her weapon?
It's just—this has been good for him, too, Maka knows it has. He's thriving as a music major, one of the few exceptional candidates who had been admitted to the joint program with Julliard. His degree will be from Columbia, but he gets nearly as much instruction from the famous music school as he does here. And while not everyone loves his style, more progressive faculty have hailed him as brilliant. He's made friends and followers, people who get music and admire his. Sure, Soul really doesn't spend much time away from her, but he does occasionally spend time with friends he's made through his studies, and it's nice to see him bonding over something he loves, to see him admired by others for his talent the way she always has. And staying is a real option, a good option. The joint program gives him priority admission into Juilliard's masters program. Kid had agreed with her originally when she'd argued that a deathscythe whose abilities center on music would be well-served by honing his talents, so why not hone them even further?
Because he might not really want to, she reminds herself. Because he had come to the DWMA to get away from music, and even if he's grown past that hurt little boy, that doesn't mean he wants to spend more time pursuing something he'd rejected over the life he had embraced in Death City. Because he'd run from this world, so why should he stay in it a second beyond what they'd agreed to?
"You worry too much, you know that, right?"
His deep voice has her eyes flying to where she senses his soul, right in front of her, reaching over to gently set a steaming cup next to her open novel. He pulls out a chair to sit across from her, taking a sip from his own steaming cup shortly after. There's a mystery paper bag resting in front of him, but she's too busy working her mouth to really notice it.
"Wha?" she finally gets out, because how the hell had she not sensed him coming? She really must be out of sorts.
"Could feel you fretting from across campus. Chill." He grabs the paper bag and digs out a danish, pulling out a second to wave her way. "Want one? From Plowshares. Line was hell, but totally worth it."
Maka wants to protest—they aren't supposed to eat in the library, even coffee is crossing a line—but she's hungry, and it's Plowshares, and screw it. Grabbing it from his outstretched hand, she thanks him more grudgingly than she means to, and takes a hasty, oversized bite. If her mouth is full, she can't respond, because he could feel her fretting from across campus, really? Since they resonate so rarely these days, their link has become more muted. If he had sensed her distress from the distance—well, crap.
"Sorry," she says after swallowing. "Didn't mean to. It's just, we should talk about what I said earlier. I mean, I know you said okay, but—this is big, Soul, this is years of our lives—well, years of my life, and maybe—"
"I'm just saying yes to appease you or something? Nah. Promise. We can talk about it later, but you'll be a wreck if you don't study, so study. I'm really cool with this, I swear."
And she can feel it, too, he's letting her feel it. Soul is content. Happy, even. It helps, takes the edge off her worry enough to focus, so she does. Maka turns her eyes to her books and lets the hours pass in companionable silence with her weapon, who sits across from her in jeans and a t-shirt, earbuds in place, staff paper laid out before him, working on his own upcoming deadlines, soul so content she can work in peace.
It's been a day. Not a particularly eventful day in terms of activity, but an entirely eventful day nonetheless.
Who knew Maka had been thinking about med school? Certainly not him. Sure, he'd known something was eating at her, and he'd figured she'd spill eventually like she usually does, but this?
This is like some sort of weird kismet. They resonate, less lately maybe, but it still happens, so who knows? They have clearly been on a similar wavelength on this all along even if it hasn't been conscious.
Soul lets his eyes stray her way, to where she stares straight ahead as they walk home from campus, contemplative. The jeans and sweater may not be meister-wear, but they've become her regular attire at school in the Fall, a far cry from her Death City wardrobe. Soul knows she misses it there; he does, too. But right now?
Right now, the prospect of staying here in New York together is perfect.
She's still worrying—quieter but there—and it's just so needless. Maka is right that they need to talk, but he's not sure he can make her understand why he's thrilled to follow her to med school without saying too much.
Because the truth is, he'll follow her anywhere, always, and not just because he's her weapon. It's been so much more than just that for a long time now.
But it's not more for her, there's never been any indication she sees him or anyone that way, and Soul doesn't want to scare her away with feelings she didn't ask for and doesn't return.
It's a problem, and he still hasn't quite worked out how to get around it because if he doesn't give her a good enough reason, she'll spiral into Maka-thoughts about not holding him back or whatever it is she's worrying over.
Well, he'll figure something out. And really, there are other reasons he could name, aren't there? Not the biggest ones, but considerations. Enough to show her that he's in this for reasons of his own that don't center on gooey, inappropriate feelings toward his meister. Because he's been thinking about not wanting this to end for awhile now, this warm, comfortable domesticity with the occasional hint of mission spice, this focus on things not battle. He likes that they only worry about dying on occasional weekends, that they are most often focused on such mundane issues as what to eat for dinner or the test coming up next week. And sure, those things had been in their lives before, but they're at the center of their lives now. Living in Death City was so much a constant exercise in training: Studying to fight better. Eating to be ready for training. Training for the next fight. Now, they fight to fulfill an obligation so that they can get back to studying and just living. And he loves that, just living with Maka. Getting to pursue music on his own terms is pretty cool, too—because sure, not everyone loves his aesthetic, but he has support among the students and faculty alike, and it's nice. The joint program has been—well, he'd gone into it with all the enthusiasm he could pretend to muster for Maka's sake, and he'd come to actually love it, against every protest his mind could dream up. His advisor and several of his professors are encouraging him to apply to the master's program at Juilliard, and while there's a part of him that still balks at the idea of following a plan his parents would so heartily approve, the fact it's his choice and his plan and his music he plays makes the difference. It rankles far less; in fact, a small part of him thrills at succeeding with music on his own terms.
So there's more than just wanting to stay with her, but that doesn't mean Maka will buy what he's selling, especially considering Soul's not entirely sure he buys it himself. Old habits and all that bullshit.
The urge to stall is strong, but to what end? He's had all day to work out a conversation he'd rather avoid, wishes his meister could just accept okay and not interrogate that seven ways from Sunday like she inevitably will. Maka is mostly good at leaving him alone when he wants to be left alone—except on those rare occasions when she isn't, when she gets some bug up her butt that he's just going with the flow and not doing what's best for him. And so what if he is? Maybe the flow is what's best. That's the part she never does get.
Holding back a sigh, Soul realizes they're near their flat and panic settles, unbidden. The silence between them during their walk, normally so companionable, so comfortable, has been heavy. Stifling. Food. They need food, right?
"We should go to the bodega," he blurts out before he knows he means to.
"Huh?" Maka comes to a screeching, spinning halt within sight of their building. If this were a cartoon, Soul thinks randomly, there would have been sound effects of squealing tires and crashing. As is, he's faced by furious, narrowing green eyes as people rush past the two assholes stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk, rolling their eyes and muttering.
Soul wishes he could say he's unsure of why she's so angry at the mundane string of words, but he knows that she knows he's stalling. Danger is imminent as her eyes flash fire, so he quickly adds, "We didn't go earlier. No food."
Maka deflates at that. "Oh. Yeah." Because it's shopping day, and she'd been the one insistent on spending it in the library. She wears that slight pout she always gets when someone proves her wrong. "But!" She recovers, eyes narrowing again. "You could have gone!"
"I was studying, too." Soul has to think on his feet here lest this become a fight. Or maybe that's better, a distraction. Keep the doubt monsters he knows sometimes eat at her at bay.
"Not the whole time," she insists.
"Okay, yes, I got us food twice. We needed to eat."
"And other than that, you were studying the whole time?"
"I—"
"Because I know you weren't just listening to your own compositions or stuff for your baroque class. Unless Miles Davis was born two hundred years earlier than his birth certificate claims." Hands on hips, impatient foot tap. This isn't going well—or it's going swimmingly, depending on how he looks at it.
"I listen to other stuff when I'm stuck. It's part of studying." There. It's true, too; he does use jazz as background when he's thinking through where to go next on a composition. Maybe not this time, maybe this time he'd just been bored, but she doesn't—
"And you couldn't listen to jazz and 'think through where to go next' from the bodega?"
"Eh, I guess." Because he could, but in truth, he'd wanted an excuse to get takeout.
She seems about to ramp up her anger, steam practically coming from her ears. It's not that her face is red as sometimes happens when she's angry—it isn't—or even the clenched fist, but the aura of sheer menace she emanates, so thick that even civilians passing on the sidewalk sense enough to give them a wide berth. Then, Maka lets out a breath and deflates again. "Whatever. Let's just go to the store."
Which means no take out and a detour when he's starving. But he wants this, right? Even if he hates grocery shopping. Even if he's totally been craving pizza from Koronet all day. Even still, he'll take grocery shopping if it means avoiding other things for an hour.
"Whatever," Soul agrees, and they bypass the little brick eight story building between high rises that their apartment is in to walk two blocks to a nearby corner store. This time, the silence is even more brooding than before, but he doesn't dare break it.
A voice that sounds annoyingly like Black*Star echoes in his head—you're a wuss, Evans, just talk to her. Man the fuck up. Nah, he'd prefer to just—not. And why does his conscience or whateverthefuck sound like that idiot, anyway? So yeah, he will because he has to, but that doesn't mean they can't shop first. Then cook. Then maybe they'll be too tired to talk…
But no, they do have to talk; Maka stewing does no one any good. Maka stewing is how bad things happen, like that time when they were younger and stupider and she'd gone to Stein for those candles. He'd prefer not to experience the civilian equivalent of psychedelic emotion candles, thanks much.
Okay, what to say and how to say it so Maka believes him and drops the inquisition?
Grabbing a hand basket, Soul trails after her as she shoves fruit and vegetables and meat in the thing. She's not gentle. What did that poor package of chicken breasts ever do to her? And of course, she's chosen the big bodega, too, the one with real food rather than all junk, so he can't even wheedle some chips—"we're not training as much so we need to be more careful with what we put in our bodies. A sound soul"—yadda yadda he knows; he just also really likes to munch potato chips when he plays Fortnite with Star, is that such a crime?
Most days, not, but an anxious Maka is an anal Maka and she's been antsy for weeks, he just hadn't known why.
She throws baby carrots in the cart and mumbles, "For game night," and Soul feels a surge of affection—because he may not want carrots, but she does think of him even when she's annoyed with him. She gets ranch, and he figures crudité is a fair compromise.
But crudité is not what he should be contemplating, here. They're nearly done getting what they need, several meals worth of food filling their two baskets, and home looms large. Carrots won't save him from talking, won't give him words or the courage to say them.
Maybe he'd had it right earlier—maybe he should just tell her that he wants to keep studying music. It's true, just not the whole truth—but it still feels dirty, telling her less than all about something so important to both of them, so he pushes that idea aside. Check out. Maka makes nice with the bodega clerk, an older guy who once lived in Death City and likes to reminisce. Sometimes he gives them free candy, so they never mind—not that they would. They miss DC, too.
Walk home. They pass by a stray pizza place he's never liked, but the smell of sauce and cheese is still heavenly and he's starving.
"We can get pizza," Maka says suddenly, and before he can say anything, adds, "Your wavelength was practically shouting."
He'd be embarrassed, but it happens. It's how he knows to buy her chocolate on the third day of her period. Strong cravings are never a secret when you're bonded, even when that bond has grown weaker with lack of use, unless you work to shove them far down, and he's too busy shoving down other things subconsciously to worry about pizza.
"And yeah, Koronet is fine. You're buying."
Like it really matters when they share a bank account, have since they were twelve like most meister-weapon teams, but he says, "Sure," anyway, and they finish the walk home to put up groceries and call for pizza. Maka really is great, even when things are weird. Hell, even when she's so mad she'd order him tacos when he wants pizza and douse them in hot sauce for spite, she's still his favorite thing. And thus, his current dilemma.
"Ninety minutes." She gets off the phone with the pizza place. Fuck. His life.
Maka sits on the couch expectantly and he knows it's the moment of truth—time to talk even if he still doesn't know what to say to play both ends to the middle and come out without stepping on an emotional landmine. He's always been shit with words, and he has to somehow find the right ones to appease his meister, the woman who knows words and fists and little else to show her truth.
"So." It's expectant. She's been waiting, patiently in Maka terms, and she expects him to elaborate.
Fuck.
"So—what?" Soul feigns casual; he's sure she sees right through it.
"So—you're okay with the whole med school thing? You didn't even ask why."
The real question is why she has to overthink this—but she needs him to talk, so he does. "Okay, then, why?" Sometimes, most of the time, it's best to follow her lead. It's part of his why, not that he'll say that.
She fidgets, and Soul can feel it, how much she's thought this through. As much as anything, Maka wants—even needs—to explain. "Because it'll be good for the DWMA, to have another doctor. And because I like it here. I like going to school. And I want to go back, eventually—just not—yet, I guess."
What should he say to that? It's not far from his thoughts—they're on the same wavelength here—but Soul knows she's expecting a challenge, and he gets it, because he's been thinking he wants to prolong this whole thing, too, but had figured altering the plan would be impossible. He's ecstatic they're of a mind, but that doesn't mean she'll accept that easily. As evidenced by this whole conversation.
"So you like going to school here, and you aren't ready to stop. And you think becoming a doctor would help Shibusen." He's purposefully non-committal.
"I want to be a doctor," she counters. "I loved my anatomy courses and I really like the idea of being able to help people, not just hurt them. If something ever happens again like—" her eyes flick to the middle of his t-shirt from where she sits, side-facing him "—if someone gets hurt, I want to be able to help, you know? I like that I might be able to help"
"Makes sense. You'd make a good doctor."
"You—really think so?" Maka looks so hopeful and he's a little struck she needs the reassurance. Sometimes, Soul forgets that deep down, his meister can be just as uncertain as he is most of the damn time.
"Well, yeah. Of course." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "You pretty much kick ass at whatever you decide to. Plus, you care about people and they like you."
"I—thanks." Her cheeks puff out, dust red, and he tries not to notice how adorable it is when she's flustered. Adorable and compassionate and lethal are clearly his weak spots—whiiich Soul really needs to stop thinking about, like yesterday.
"So yeah, I think it's a good idea. You should go to med school. You've got a four oh, gonna graduate summa, no reason not to."
"And Shibusen?" Maka fidgets, looks at her fingers.
"Can wait. Like you said, they could use another doctor." His voice is firm. Resolute. She needs reassurance, so he offers it.
"And… you?"
A shrug. "Been thinking about getting my masters."
"In music?" Why does she look surprised?
"No, in underwater basket weaving," he scoffs.
"Soul, that's—" she practically bounces in her seat. "That's amazing! Oh my Death, it's—" her face falls. "But—you're not just saying that? You were really thinking about it—before?"
"You can even ask my advisor, yeah—I just—didn't know if I could."
"Because of me—and because of Shibusen." Maka looks contemplative again, and she's so carefully masking her emotions that he can't begin to know what she's getting at.
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm on board, so it's just Shibusen we need to worry about. Though med school will take longer than your masters"
"So?" Another shrug.
"Sooo, you'd be fully justified to go back after." She's looking at her hands again, but forces her gaze to meet his. "I'd—understand if you wanted to." She's blocking her emotions but pain seeps through anyway. "You could get a new meister, and—"
"Not gonna happen," Soul cuts her off. "Sticking with you for as long as you'll put up with me. Thought I made that clear the last time."
"But that's the problem!" She blurts, frustration clear in flashing green eyes. Maka turns to face him more fully, tucking her feet underneath her on the worn leather couch. "I don't want you stuck with me because you think that's what you're supposed to do! I want you to—"
Her hands fly to her mouth and she shakes her head, eyes going wide like she's just swallowed a bug.
"You want me to—what?" Because he really wants to know.
"Nothing." Maka drops her hands, steely-eyed and defensive.
The sigh is both involuntary and necessary because must he really? This is edging into territory Soul desperately wants to skirt, but it's clear skirting will cause more problems than it avoids, so he straightens his shoulders, meets her gaze, and says, "I'm not stuck with you, never have been. Here because I wanna be. Hasn't changed. Isn't changing. Won't change."
"But why?"
It's so direct, so blunt, that he's startled into bluntness of his own. "'Cause I like being with you. Don't wanna not be."
"Oh." She blinks. "You—do?"
"No, I stick around because I hate your guts."
A nervous laugh. "Okay, yeah. But, I mean—that's why you want to stay, or?"
"Part of it," Soul admits. "I like it here. With you. It's cool. I mean, yeah, the Academy is cool, too, but once we go back, that's it. And I like just being able to chill together more, you know? You're my partner." There's an emphasis there he didn't mean to convey and can't take back and he wonders if she'll read more into it than he wants to publish just now. Or ever.
"I—am? I..." She's scarlet, and shit, she's read into it completely, hasn't she? Shit fuck motherfucking balls. "Of course I am but… you wanted to stay here—with me?"
"Pretty sure I said that."
"Because you like—being with me?" She's searching his gaze.
"Even when you're grilling me like a piece of overcooked meat, yeah." Embarrassment and fear bring out his habitual armor of sarcasm.
"Me too."
"You..?" A knot of sick confusion settles in his core because he doesn't believe—he knows she can't be saying—
"I wanted to stay together here. I wanted to stay because it's nice. I wanted to stay because I like being with you, too."
There's no way she's saying what it sounds like she's saying. No fucking way. Soul needs to tamp down on the sick hope in his gut, the wave of nausea. To clarify that she's not saying, or more implying, that she—that she—
"Because we're friends." The way she deflates, practically hunches in on herself, it makes him die a little. Maybe she does mean... "But also—uh—more. Stronger—It's like—"
"We're partners," Maka clarifies as she sits straighter. "Partners should be together. We both like being together. Do we both—want to be together?"
"I mean, I do if you do." Understatement. Of the century.
"Like…?" She's leaning closer. Searching his eyes, searching his soul, so he lets her see because—because she deserves that, he supposes, and because she maybe shares that, and he can't believe this is happening, that he's misread things for—who knows how long, really—but he meets her halfway and their lips come together. It's the briefest peck, a warm press. It's fucking everything.
"Yeah, uh, just like that." His voice is a rasp.
"Good!" She's beaming from ear to ear as she leans back. "Grad school it is, then!"
It's a quick shift, but he manages a bumbling recovery. He figures they've got plenty of time to work through this newest part of their partnership now that they're on the same page, even if he kind of sort of wants to repeat that whole kiss thing. "Sounds like a plan. But Kid might not be on board."
Maka shrugs like that's the last thing on her mind. "If he isn't, we can figure it out. Right now, I'd sort of like to…" her eyes flick to his lips, face scarlet, hands fidgeting, so he nods, swallows.
"Me too.
"Okay," she breathes, and launches herself at him and holy Death in Shibusen had you told him the conversation would end this way, with her in his lap and her tongue in his mouth and their souls humming the same warm tune—well, he would have cried bullshit—but he also might have had the conversation sooner.
The doorbell interrupts and Soul curses the pizza he'd so craved, but he's hungry enough not to be completely put out, and giddy enough not to really be bothered much.
They've got obstacles ahead—getting Kid's approval, figuring out logistics like programs and applications and actually getting in, all things that Maka will stress over in the coming months. But even if their final destination is still unknown, hell, even if they can't do anything they've just begun to plan, Soul figures that as long as they're together, all is right with the world.