My mama's love was conditional.

I don't know when I realized that, but somewhere along the way—definitely in childhood—I learned that it was a contest. Or, maybe not a contest exactly, but a show. I had straight A's, I excelled at the same extracurriculars she had as a child, and I even dressed in the same style. The perfect little copy. Besides the hints of my papa in my face, you'd think my mama just cloned herself. This was the Maka she loved.

But then… it wasn't even that I changed, just her expectations. And somehow—as if it was even fair!—one of those expectations became not being papa's daughter. The only way she could love me was if I ripped that other set of genes from my guts and tossed them aside. It wasn't enough that I blamed Papa– that I shamed him. None of it was enough because I was still connected. That's how I lost her love.

My papa's love is… unconditional.

Except it's not the flip of a coin. It's not everything Mama's isn't– even though I'm sure Papa thinks that's what he's doing. All of his smothering just screams of making up for what my mama withheld. Even though it can be as thick as molasses, it's still… translucent? Metaphors should be my strong suit, but I have never been able to figure out Papa's love. I guess that's why I'm here– why I'm talking about it today.

He loves unconditionally.

But it always feels as if there's a slow leak.

Or maybe that it's just a veneer– see through.

How could he love Mama so unconditionally and then… love someone else? Doesn't cheating negate unconditional love? I'm not naïve– I know their relationship wasn't perfect and that Mama had her faults but–!

Unconditional.

Conditional.

And now I… when I think about how I love– who I might love– I wonder how I'm loving them.

Fine. Alright. When I think about– about Soul. I don't think I've ever expected anything of him– needed him to fit a mold. If anything, he's too unique to even have a mold. So when I think about how I lo–

Oh.

When I think about how I love him.

…

No, I just– I've never said it out loud. Not about anyone. Not in an office. Not in the privacy of my own room. Probably not even in my own head. That's ridiculous, isn't it? Emotionally stunted. By now I should have been with– dated– loved enough people. Said it a million times– some meaningful and some not. I should know the difference between condition and unconditional– no metaphors needed.

But I haven't.

I want to be able to say it to him. Not only that, but I want to be able to mean it. To not worry where it falls on the spectrum. I want to make sure it's not black or white, true or false, or any other dichotomy. I don't know how to do that, but I want to try.

Maka's first impression of Julien was a smile so beaming it should have been gracing a toothpaste commercial. One quick sideways glance at Soul told her this was not necessarily the norm as a sweet pink of embarrassment clung boyishly to his cheeks. "You must be Maka!" Her papa had always suffused her name with saccharine syrup but this wasn't that. That oomph was more along the lines of a child seeing Santa.

"Yeah, Julien, this is Maka." Soul tried to add a steadier tempo as they walked through the door, but obviously it was not meant to be.

"Papa's girlfriend!" Layla added with a triumphant toss of her body into Julien's arms.

With Soul now thoroughly in the throes, Maka finally found her moment to reply: "It's wonderful to meet you."

"Let them get in the house, Dad." Remy already sounded exhausted, and his face as it peeked over the back of the couch proved it. His smile was wan, even as Layla rocketed into the room and into his arms. "Energetic as always, Lala."

Maka shelved a laugh—even though Soul's wince at the nickname spurred it—and raised a gentle wave. "Nice to see you again, Remy."

A hint of deviousness brought life to his previously dull grin. "Ah, yes, Maka, I may have heard you were coming."

Soul's huff brought her attention back to him just in time to catch the wiping away of his frown. "Hello, Remy."

Gone was any more temperance of Remy's smirk. "Well, since the party's all here, I'll go get Mom."

Tension shot between their connected hands. "Nah, I'll get her," Soul instantly cut in. The separation was just as swift, an odd blow that Maka couldn't cushion.

Julien came up beside her, replacing Soul's space with his warmth. "Come, sit. It'll take him some time to coax her down." As Julien escorted her to the living room arrangement, Layla locked to her side, drawing them in coziness that started to chip away at the chill.

Remy couldn't follow suit. "He probably doesn't want you to hear her call him Wesley."

"Remy," Julien spat, a harshness so alien from the utter joy that had greeted them.

"Mom has Middle-stage Alzheimer's," Remy continued without any sign of absorbing the verbal blow from his father, "so history is a problem for her. Every time she sees Solomon, she sees Wesley. She even forgets about Viv, but none of us look like her, so–"

"Stop it, Remy," Julien urged again, this time closer to a plea.

Layla slid closer to Maka, digging under her arm. "Uncle Remy, I want to talk about something else."

While Remy's bluntness was immeasurable, he immediately swayed as soon as Layla's voice warbled free. "Sorry, Lala. What would you like to discuss?"

Instead of answering, Layla brought inquiring eyes to Maka's. Under the girl's pleading glare, Maka instantly jumped to soothe. "Well, why don't you tell your uncle about that class trip you took last week?"

The sweet little voice delivered, weaving a tale of museum escapades. Maka may have heard it all before—and she was fairly sure Remy and Julien had over the phone—except she couldn't help but become absorbed in the excitement that Layla radiated. She wasn't alone, and for a moment, the whole room seemed to forget the absences.

"Oh, you changed your hair!"

Maka raised her head at the exuberant chime of a voice, gaze falling on a slim, older woman with wavy raven hair, hazel eyes wide with joy.

"Vivienne, it's been so long since you've come to visit!" Flora attempted a swift step, but Soul caught her by the elbow, slowing her back to his side.

"Flora, I told you," he murmured hoarsely, worried eyes darting from Maka back to the woman at his side. "That's Maka– she's here with me–"

"I think I know my own daughter," Flora snipped back before trying to break free as Soul attempted tender manipulations.

"Flora, darling." Julien was up, motioning slowly with his hands to grab her attention. "It's not Vivienne, see?" He closed her in, sandwiched between Soul and himself as he nodded towards Maka.

Layla cuddled closer, but no matter the warmth that radiated, a chill still crept up Maka's spine. Soul's eyes were stripped bare of any of the coy enjoyment that had suffused their entrance. Melancholy had replaced it as a weak, wistful sigh broke his lips while he stared at Flora. "Viv's not…" He shook his head, replacing the rest of that sentence with another flimsy breath.

I'm not Viv. The logic of it was obvious– so why did it sting? Why did it suddenly feel as if she was more than a stranger? That Flora's mistake—completely innocent, completely unintentional—had not been a misidentification but a stripping of her personhood? If she couldn't be the woman they all wanted to be there, why was she even there?

"It's Maka, Grandma," Layla peeped. "She's–"

"Not right now, bug," Soul muttered.

"But if you're here"—Flora turned to Soul, brow furrowing—"where's Vivienne? Why didn't you bring my daughter?"

"I'm–" Soul's voice broke, followed by a rough swallow.

"Solomon's here with Maka, Flora," Julien cooed softly. "Come– come here and meet her."

Flora glanced between the two, eyebrows undulating between a deep furrow and forlorn wilting. "I– It really isn't–" Softening hazel eyes– begging hazel eyes fell on Maka, making her heart jump into her throat again.

She wishes I was her. Maka tried to swallow that bitter pill as she stood, approaching them slowly. "It's nice to meet you, Flora. I'm Maka."

"Oh," Flora whispered as she sighed, her hand trembling as it came to her cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, my love," Julien whispered before grasping and soothing the hand that had worried lines along her face.

"Please don't worry about it." While Maka's request placated Flora, her own heart resisted the suggestion. The moment Flora managed a smile, Maka's gaze flicked towards Soul. He had stepped off to the side, empty eyes stuck on the carpet below his feet. A hand was pressed to his mouth, capturing whatever tumultuous thoughts were threatening to leak from his mouth. Does he… does he wish I was her, too?

Remy barely looked up from the suds, but the appraisal was still clear, sinking under Maka's skin. Getting water from the fridge had never been equivalent with walking through a minefield before, but she supposed there was a first time for everything. She'd made it all the way to a half-filled glass when he cleared his throat. "You know you're nothing like her."

Every muscle was clenched, frozen, but her head still managed to swivel to meet his casual glance. How can he look at me like that? After saying something so cruel!

His lips pressed together before he sighed. "Lala would interject right now that I have to watch my tone. I've never been good at it." Remy turned his attention back to the dishes, dunking a new plate into the water. "You're not, and that's a good thing– not something to worry about."

Her weakened wrist let the water jug clink to the countertop. "I…"

"Since Mom said it you've been thinking about it," he countered quickly. "It's not worth thinking about. It's just a mistake of her mind, not something deeper."

"Soul loves your sister," Maka answered quietly, tearing away a corner of her own fear.

A sharp, derisive laugh shot from Remy's mouth. "In the same way I love my sister. I hate to admit it, but he's just as much a brother to her as I am. She never saw us any differently."

All of the petty fear withered in her stomach as embarrassment burned pink and hot around her neck. I'm so stupid. It's never been a contest. Maka started the hurried task of putting the jug away so she could spirit back into the room– be a part of the family again– but as she shut the fridge, the words that were ringing in her head stuck. "Remy?"

"Hm?" He barely surfaced from his task, but did cock his head as if listening for the rest.

"Have you ever said that to Soul?"

"That you're not Viv?" he offered back.

"No…" Maka invaded his space, forcing Remy's full attention. The dishes stopped, the two staring at each other. "Have you ever told Soul that what your mother does is just a mistake? That he's not just some stand-in for his brother?"

For the first time since she'd met him—and possibly for the first time in Remy's life—shame blossomed across his features. "Why would I? I assumed he hated him. He told me his brother never loved him…"

Those words sunk between the two of them, littering the floor in a mess that couldn't be tidied. "That's not what I'm asking, Remy," Maka urged. "I don't think you, Julien, or even Flora see him that way, so have you—any of you—told him?"

His fingers clutched the edge of the porcelain, giving him a lean so he could stare at what was left of the dishes. "I never thought it was necessary."

A tiny, bitter laugh popped past her teeth. "How could you–?"

"Takin' some time in here." Soul's voice made them both jump, Maka instantly pivoting to see him standing in the doorway. His face was oddly lax, but his glare was hardening on Remy.

"Just putting Maka through the ringer," Remy replied blandly before turning back to his task with the air of a man saturated in ennui.

Maka swallowed the frustration that threatened to birth a scream from her throat before she took a few steps to meet Soul. "Come here," she whispered as she dragged him back towards an alcove off the hallway. It was a laundry room, and while tantalizing memories of him could have come to her, everything was doused by her melancholy realization: No one's ever told him he's not Wesley.

Soul's hands gently rested on her hips, pulling her close enough for him to dip his forehead to hers and murmur: "Listen, he can be a dick, I know, so I'm sorry if–"

She silenced him easily with a kiss as her fingers dug into his flannel, keeping any more words at bay. And it won't matter if I say it because I'm biased. It'll be meaningless because I wasn't there to know Wesley– to make a comparison. Her lips refused to unlatch, desperate to find a way to turn her touch– this gentle caress into something that could heal him. Her frustration bubbled over, making her eyes sting.

"Hey," he muttered as his hands came to her face, his thumb catching the start of one of her tears. "Damnit, if he was really that fucking mean, Maka, I'll kill him."

"No," she whispered mournfully before opening her eyes, letting the tears fall where they may. It's not Remy's fault– it's me. I can't do anything for him and– "Soul, you are exactly who you are."

His forehead crinkled, creases almost comical in their depth. "Maka, I don't–"

"You're fantastic at being Layla's papa," she started to babble, sure of the absurdity of it all but unable to stop it, "you're exactly what I want as a boyfriend, you're a great teacher– and these people love you, please tell me you know that they love you."

Soul's smile was cloudy at first, but slowly stretched out to a gentle but lazy curve. "What's gotten into you?" It was lovingly playful, making her heart ache even more than the bitterness she was trying to tamper down.

"Soul, just tell me"—she bunched the fabric of his shirt in her fists—"you know they love you, right?"

He sighed softly as he covered her straining fingers with his. "Yeah. That's why I brought you here rather than my parents. It's not exactly a family, I know, but–"

"It is!"

His eyebrows fluttered upward with her force. "What the hell did Remy say to you?" Soul didn't leave space for her to answer the question as his feet hit the linoleum again. Maka was quick on his heels, but there was no stopping Soul as he charged back to Remy's side. "Listen, Remy, I don't know what–"

Remy let the utensils in his hands fall back into the sink with a clatter, breaking Soul's flow. "No, you listen." He turned, snapping the dish towel from its hook to dry his hands as he continued: "Maka, if you'll excuse us."

"No," Soul blurted as his hand snatched hers. "You said something to her and I–"

"Soul," Maka started, watching as concerned red eyes flicked back to her. "Really, it's not what you think."

"Fine," Remy interrupted any of Maka's sweetness as he threw the towel to the counter. "If you're going to make me say it in front of her, I guess I have to."

Soul's shoulders snapped back into place, making him tall as he stood between them. He was silent, hand tightly wrapped around Maka's while he waited for a blow.

Remy glanced at Maka first before sighing. "I doubt you'll disagree with what I said to her anyway: Maka isn't Vivienne."

A small jolt shook the body in front of her. Maka squeezed their connection, and Soul finally found his voice. "You're right."

There was a challenge in the rise of Remy's eyebrows. "It would be unkind to leave her thinking that she was just some replacement, wouldn't it?"

Soul shifted, giving Maka a clearer view of Remy as he leaned nonchalantly against the sink. "I never– It's not like I ever said that about her anyway, Remy."

"No, but Mom makes mistakes," Remy let that drift off in a mumble. He shook his head. "I thought that was clear, but…"

"Yeah, Remy, she does"—Soul's voice started to fill with grit—"but I don't see what that's gotta do with anything."

Remy crossed his arms over his chest. "I told Maka she calls you Wesley."

"What?" It was half a roar, and Maka heard the murmuring starting in the living room. "Why the fuck– that's not–" Soul glanced back at her, eyes strained with worry and hopelessness.

Maka's heart sank. "Soul, please…"

His voice trembled. "Sorry, I just… I didn't want you to hear it."

"I don't know why you're apologizing," Remy cut into any intimacy of the moment, causing Soul to snap his attention back. "And I don't know why you're looking at me like that– it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's Julien and I who should be ashamed."

Suddenly Soul's shoulder's slacked as if all the rage from him deflated. "What?" Maka moved forward as Remy arranged his thoughts, her hand running gently up and down Soul's back as she stuck to his side. Soul glanced at her, brows knit, before looking back at Remy. "Remy?"

"I hated your brother," Remy spat. "Completely irritating. Too jovial, a social butterfly, and—in so many ways—sly . But Viv loved him, so I accepted that." He took a step forward, his evaluating glare running up and down Soul. "You—no matter how much I tried to force myself not to—I liked. To me, you were the better brother. You are not Wesley and have never been as far as I'm concerned."

Soul's lower lip gaped before he caught it by tightening his jaw. "I don't know what the fuck you're on about–" he started to mutter.

"Because you have it in your head that you're a replacement," Remy replied sharply, "and you're not. I have never thought of you as Wesley– or a shadow of him."

"Bullshit," Soul murmured back, pain warbling the edge of the word. "You– you said–"

"Because I was jealous." Remy choked the air out of his fists, holding them tightly at his side. "I was jealous that she loved you– that you were the better brother– that you got to say goodbye to her and I didn't." A bitter, broken laugh fluttered off his lips. "Even worse, Mom told me what you said– what you promised– and watching you follow through with Layla just told me I didn't love her enough. Not like you."

"Remy, I– I wasn't tryin' to–"

"No, you weren't." Remy relaxed a hand, waving off the comment before letting his fingers drift through his hair. His eyes drifted off, finishing at the floor as he shook his head. "And I don't want any sort of pity. The point of telling you any of this is just to make it clear where you stand in this family: you are my brother. You earned that, only you."

Their eyes met, but Soul made no move to leave Maka's side. "You mean that?"

"You know me better than to think I'd ever offer false comfort," Remy muttered back.

"Yeah." His voice shrank along with his breath. Time ticked as the storm settled around them. Soul finally pulled in a long breath before dropping his gaze to Maka. "The living room probably thinks we killed each other. Mind going in there and making sure Layla is alright?"

"Sure." Maka lifted on tiptoe, dusting a soft kiss over his cheek. Remy was already turning back to the dishes, ignoring the tender exchange as Maka placed a hand on his chest. "But I want to know you're alright first," she whispered.

A tiny, breathless laugh left him. "Sorta. Yeah. Just–" He glanced back at Remy. "Guess I just wanna talk to my brother for a minute."