"You know," Maka says, "you were once in a dream I had, too."

"Really?" Soul leans forward in his chair, a confident smile creeping onto his face. "What was it about?"

"I can hear your ego inflating right now."

"No, you can't," Soul defends himself quickly. Perhaps midnight visits from platonic friends is a universal experience. Blackstar said he's dreamt of them too, anyway. He can't help letting himself feel it- relief, is it? Relieves that Maka was thinking of him? For a moment, a heat as strong as the burning weather begins to smoke inside his skull: he has to know what Maka's dream was about.

Why hadn't she told him about it before?

He recoils from the ferocity of his own thoughts.

"Yes, I can. I think you owe me some kindness for how you treated me today," maka says, voice touched by a playful twinge that Soul knows so well.

"I owe you something?" Soul gently, gently strokes the embers. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"For you to be nice, chill," Maka laughs, but sounds nervous. "Freak."

Soul's heart races. "You love me," he mutters.

"Stop being weird," Maka says, "This is exactly why I never told you about it."

"Well, you dreamt about me first!"

"What? You're so hypocritical- oh my god. Nevermind, Soul."

"Maka, no," Soul says, trying to regain a serious tone despite being deeply amused by their turn of conversation. "I didn't mean to upset you, I promise."

Maka definitely doesn't buy it. "Y'know, I think I won't tell you. That's a much better punishment for you being mean to me."

"Oh, a punishment?" Soul repeats, unable to stop himself from laughing again.

Maka groans. "That's it, have a nice rest of your day. I can't deal with you anymore."

"Wait, no-" Soul is cut off by Maka disconnecting from their call.

He raises a hand over his mouth. He wants to fight it off- his grin, the flutters in his stomach, the need to hear Maka's voice again– but can't. His cheeks are warm and flushed red. He feels himself slipping deeper into the place that keeps calling his name. It feels something like desire. It feels something like a challenge. It feels so familiar.

Shame side-steps his rising happiness. He is bound to be taking advantage of Maka to a minor degree, withholding the truth from her and skating by with loose humor. His remarks used to come absently from his mouth, a way to make Maka complain or smile. Now, he's taunted by flurries of emotions and thoughts that come after- the line between a joke and a confession becoming obscurely blurred. It isn't fair, is it?

He checks the temperature on his phone: 110 degrees. He groans.

Clicking on Twitter, he begins typing slowly.

Never underestimate the power of a heat wave, he tweets.

He scrolls for a few minutes, liking and replying to a few people who follow him. He catches a few of his tagged tweets that his friends have generously tagged him in. Blackstar jokingly commented on his tweet, sarcastically questioning why Maka would make such a simple mistake during their match earlier. He responds with, "I've been wondering that too."

He suddenly gets a notification at the top of his screen. ScytheMeister has replied to your tweet.

Petition to keep Soul's AC broken for good, it reads. He votes "no." He types out a response, but hesitates upon rereading. Perhaps it is better suited for a snapchat instead.

So you want to keep me sweaty? He texts.

He watches Maka's icon appear, lurk, then type: Yes.

Soul stares at his phone. Maybe it went over Maka's head.

I like you better that way, Maka adds.

His stomach drops, and he immediately shuts off his phone.

"What?" He says, running a hand through his hair, "what?"

His phone rattles against his desk- Blackstar has texted him. He doesn't bother picking it up. QIt was a joke. He pulls the fabric of his shirt away from his damp chest, leaning back in his chair. If anything wasn't fair, it was this: he can throw as many sleazy lines at Maka as he wanted, with or without intent to kill, but this, this, the low feeling stirring in his stomach, the burning in his face, his mind rewiring for the fourteenth time today- all because Maka happens to toss back.

He leaves the room. Unfair.

He drinks four glasses of water in two minutes. Cruel.

He settles to watch a movie on his couch, spending most of it fighting the urge to go back to his room and grab his phone. Downright criminal.

When the credits roll, and the bright screen turns to black, he locks eyes with his reflection. He's silhouetted in the dim room, but can vaguely make out the fluff of his hair; the slope of his shoulders. Blair is curled up gently at his side.

Is this what he looked like when Maka dreamt of him? A hollowed shape on a monotone screen? In his dreams, Maka was everything to him. He wonders how much he'd pale in comparison if they were side-by-side at this moment. Maka would make his couch look even dingier than normal, and her laugh would light up the room. They could be sitting and talking, or watching television, and Soul wouldn't be able to take his eyes away. He could forget about the heat; sit closer, make her blush, pull her in.

He abruptly rises, startling Blair. He feels the relentless urge to release his anger, the disharmony overwhelming. No matter what he does, his thoughts drag him back there; the Blackroom, warm hands in his. Where he'd made out with his friend, his best-friend, and loved every tantalizing second of touching her skin and feeling her tremble. He's furious with his own mind as much as he's addicted to the idea of returning to it.

He takes a deep breath. He thinks of the many nights he'd seen himself, suited up, bloodied, chest heaving by that black piano. To confront Little Ogre head on is the only healing he knows.

I don't just want to go back, he lets the thought surface, and exhales slowly. I want to kiss her here, and now.

"So fucking stupid," He mutters, but the admission alone was enough to settle his heart.

Blair sits in front of his feet, and meows. He bends down to scratch her head, and she follows him on the way back to his bedroom. When he picks up his phone, a few hours worth of notifications blink on his home-screen.

Maybe we should talk about some stuff soon, Blackstar had texted.

He ignores it. Similarly, Maka hasn't said anything since Soul left her on opened. He switches to their iMessages, and clicks on the link to the song from their previous thread without much forethought.

Hi, he texts Maka. He shuffles to grab his headphones.

Hello, Maka responds, almost immediately.

Soul pressed play; types, I missed you.

He momentarily questions his choices, again.

I thought you were taking a nap or something, Maka says.

He reigns himself back from making another nightmare or kissing-his-best-friend related joke. I was watching a music documentary, he sends instead, keeping it civil. His headphones begin whispering a soft melody.

He watches Maka pause before responding with: That's cute.

"Come on, Maka," he breathes. He'd just gotten over the last heart attack he was given.

It was actually pretty cool, he replies, now stubbornly keeping it civil.

Was it another pianist's overview? Maka asks. He's touched by the knowledge that Maka cares enough to remember such small tokens of him.

Maybe, he texts, wbu what are you up to?

The music swells in his ears, and he takes in a deep breath of contentment as he reads Maka's next message: Nothing really, thinking about hopping on since Tsubaki is playing. Are you gonna join?

He glances at his sleeping monitor. Computer so far away. Bed cold. Chair hot, he says.

The three dots signifying Maka is typing appear, then disappear. Read at 9:07pm.

Soul waits, resting his phone on his chest as a minute passes. His eyes shut as the lyrics take over his thoughts.

The song is cut off by his ringtone blasting in his ears as his phone vibrates against his rib cage incessantly. His eyes fly open as he's shaken from the trance the song had lured him into.

Maka is calling him.

He looked at the name, the contact picture is a cursed selfie Maka had taken, and the green and red buttons would change the course of his carefully collected mood. She's calling him; not on Discord, or to make him play, or to ask for his brother's cell number.

Soul picks up.

"Hello," Maka says again, her tone casual, but soft.

Soul's heart races. "Hi."

"I figured this was easier than texting," Maka explains, and Soul's mind passes over each inflection of syllables in her endearing voice. She sounds closer than usual. Soul suddenly remembers the last time they'd been on a phone call, he'd hung up because the change in Maka's mic made him uncomfortable. He tried to not let himself over-analyze that memory.

"Okay," Soul says. "Cool."

"Why do you sound nervous?"

His cheeks redden. "I'm not. You interrupted my music so I'm still adjusting to being back in the real world."

"Oh, sorry. What were you listening to?"

Sou hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't disclose that information. He worries Maka will be able to tell how obsessed he is with the song she'd sent him as a gag.

He frowns. What is he thinking? Maka is as dense as a brick.

"Summertime Sadness," He says. "I really like it."

"Nice, me too," Maka carries on. "Though I do think you enjoy it while being a baby about your weather is very fitting."

"Isn't that because you have a thing for me being sweaty?" He jokes. It's all a bit overwhelming; Maka calling him out of nowhere, the strange intimacy of their exchange, his strained filter breaking under the pressure.

Maka laughs. "Oh, yeah, definitely. My twitter poll lost, by the way. I guess our friends don't want you to suffer as much as I do."

"You're a dork," Soul says fondly.

"Come on, sending that song was funny, you said it yourself." Maka teases. Soul can hear her chuckle on the other end. "I remember when I first discovered it, I kept listening to it for like, a week straight."

Soul's throat tightens. Do the melodic words sink into Maka's skin the same way they consume him? Does she think about the song when she feels the lightest grace of sweat trickle down her back? When she's lying in bed, on the phone with her best friend, fighting back the urge to say: "I can't stop thinking about you."

"... what?"

Soul sits up immediately. Fuck. Did he say that out loud? Fuck.

"I said I can't stop thinking about it too," He lies quickly. His heart thumps erratically. "I don't normally find songs that I enjoy this much, so thanks for that."

"Yeah… no problem," Maka says.

Soul can't tell if she bought it or not. Terror drains the color from his face as silence isolates him in the imprisioning walls of his room. He's naturally run into this painful stoicism from Maka before, when he's made comments that land awkwardly, but he knows this one could be the worst yet. He prays that Maka believes him.

"So," Soul says, "Are you going to join Tsubaki?"

"Probably not, I don't really feel like getting up."

He swallows. "Are- are you in bed?"

"Yeah," Maka says slowly. "Why?"

"Nothing, just… me too." Soul glances at the pillows lying next to him, wondering if they both could fit on his mattress, or if he'd have to wrap his arms around Maka's waist and pull her to his chest- he winces. He thought he'd regained more control by accepting he non-platonically wants to kiss Maka, but is beginning to think it might be the opposite.

He scorns.

"Is it still hot there?" Maka asks.

"Yeah, I called someone to take a look at my AC and stuff but I'm not too hopeful. It's only supposed to get hotter and they might force a brown-out." He'll die if it comes to that. The last brownout DeathCity had was a few summers prior, and he'd attempted to live without electricity for all of twelve hours before giving up and driving a stifling four hours to his family's home. His brother had been delighted.

"I've never had one of those here." Maka adds.

"Well, it's pretty miserable. Dark, terrible heat, I have to cook everything on the stove. I have a collection of candles just in case."

"And, no Valorant." Maka adds.

Soul rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah, that too."

"Why don't you just go to your parents to pass the time?"

Soul laughs shortly. "I don't really like being there. Remember?"

Childhood trauma is a bitch.

"Oh," Maka says quietly. "Of course I do."

Soul softens at the concern in her tone. "Hey, look, you really don't have to worry about all that stuff. I can hear you frowning. I'm fine."

Maka sighs. "I don't know Soul, that's a fairly disturbing experience to be numb to."

"I-," his voice falters, "I know. But for the first time ever, I… find myself wanting to return to it."

"Why?" Maka asks, exasperated. "I thought it terrifies you."

"It does." Soul reclines back into his bed. Please dont push me, Maka. Images of a similar checkered floored room flash in his mind.

Maka pushes. "Then why?"

"Because I want to see you again," He says, words ghosting past his lips with the remembrance of Little Ogre behaving and the glossy piano. He rests a hand on his chest to feel his heart pound heavily against his palm.

Maka pauses. Her voice is faint. "Do you really mean that?"

"Yeah." The blinds hanging in Soul's screened window shift slightly, the hint of a breeze trickling into his stuffy room. "I've kind of realized how much I want to meet you."

"I… know what you mean," Maka says, "I felt that after I dreamt about you too."

Soul stifles his sharp inhale. He'd messed this up before; scared Maka away. He tried to calm his unsteady nerves, biting back anything that could damage the careful approach needed for his friend's Bambi-like demeanor.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Soul asks, voice successfully mellow.

Maka hums. "Will you try to mess with me?"

"No, I promise." He says earnestly.

In the quiet moment that follows, he doesn't move.

"Alight." Maka clears her throat. "I had it about three months ago, so I don't remember everything clearly. Just pieces here and there." The breeze in Soul's room gently picks up. "It started with me in my car, I think, waiting alongside the curb at the airport near my house. I parked and went into the baggage claim- I knew I was meant to pick up someone, I couldn't remember who- but it was completely empty. I was just standing there, until one carousel turned on, and a suitcase dropped onto it. When I went to pick it up, someone else grabbed it before me." Maka pauses. "You grabbed it before me."

"How- how did you know it was me?" Soul asks, unable to bring his voice above a murmur.

"I just knew," Maka says softly. "You were tall, and polite. But…"

"But?" Soul repeats, knowing what's coming.

"Your face," Maka speaks quietly, "I couldn't see it."

Soul's heart drops, falling silent. He feels forever haunted by that hidden feature.

"Soul? Maka checks gently.

It floods him again; the comfort of his name passing from Maka's lips, and the embarrassment that she can tell by the slightest change in Soul's tone when he's feeling unsafe. He loves and hates the way Maka's voice brings him home.

"Keep going," he grunts.

"Okay," Maka says, proceeding cautiously. "We walked around the empty terminals for a while. I don't know why we didn't leave. We talked the whole time, and you sounded like yourself- just all close up, if that makes sense." It does. "I was so happy to see you," Maka's sweet excitement is audible, "I remember that the most, feeling so happy. At some point I told you that, and- and you hugged me."

A small smile forms on Soul's face. He will definitely hold Maka tight for a frustratingly long period of time when they first meet. He wonders if Maka's head would fit under his chin, if he would smell the shampoo in her blonde hair.

"Then I- I looked up at you and your face was a little more clear," Maka stammered, voice taught, "Just a little bit. Enough to see your mouth clearly."

Soul blushes. He remembers the feeling of Maka touching his face in his dream. His scalp begins to tingle where he's imagined Maka stroking his hair. Why would Maka, in both dreams-

"And you, well, you uhm-," She breathes, "You kissed my forehead."

Soul freezes.

He did what?

"That was it, I woke up," Maka says quickly. She huffs, quietly adding, "You're never going to let me live this down."

Soul's chest swells with a torrent of emotions; pride, confusion, ambition. He presses his knuckles to his burning cheek.

Maka had a dream that he kissed her. She had a dream that he kissed her.

"Wh-," he tries, and fails to still his breathing. He hopes Maka can't hear the tremble in his voice. Floating above his body, he finds himself asking, "What was it like?"

He hears Maka's breath hitch. "It felt safe," she whispers, "And warm. So warm."

Soul screws his eyes shut, chest rising and falling rapidly. He wants to tell her everything- how Maka had touched his face in his mind too, how she'd kissed his mouth and wanted to kiss her everywhere. He knows he could. He'd even blame it on the slip of his unruly tongue. Yet there was a boundary he had to walk upon, teetering from side to side, never choosing to cross in fear of losing Maka. He knows he won't.

"...I'll put that on the list of things to do when I meet you for the first time," he says instead.

To his surprise, Maka laughs. The sound alleviates the tension in his muscles. "Shut up."

Soul smiles. "I'm serious."

"No, you aren't," Maka says, "I know you're not actually like that."

"You have no idea what I'm like in real life."

Maka scoffs. "You're all talk."

Soul raises his eyebrows. "Oh really?" He opens his phone, navigates to Snapchat.

"Yeah," Maka says, confidently.

Soul takes a photo. Send to Maka.

"Wait," Maka says after a moment, "What did you just send to me?"

Soul laughs.

"Soul," The snap opens. "What-"

It's hardly a selfie, a quick shot aimed close to Soul's face. It didn't show anything except part of his jawline, his neck, and tufts of hair sprawled on the pillow beneath his head.

Soul can't stop laughing at Maka's silence, wheezing when he watches her replay the image. He knows where this fit is coming from- it's surreal that their conversation had made him feel such tidal waves of emotions so far. He is nervous, and exhilarated, and starting to consider that maybe Maka is, too. Maybe.

"I hate you," Maka utters with a breathy warmth that shuts Soul up immediately. "You did the same thing to me already today."

He remembers what he'd sent during their discord call earlier, the power it gave him. His voice drops low, "Why, are you blushing again?"

Maka's response is amorous. "Do you want me to be?"

The air is taken from Soul's lungs. His eyes, wide open, pointlessly search his room to check he's still awake. Maka sounds just like she had on the beach, and it burns in Soul, red hot, as he swallows the euphoria whole.

He grips onto his bed sheets. Blair stares at him with judgment.

What the hell is going on?

"Yes," he professes, deciding to use Maka's words against her, "I like you better that way."

What are we doing?

"You're too much," Maka says, winded. "I- I think I should go to bed."

Soul feels a pang- he fully expects to feel empty without Maka's soft voice in his ear- but sympathizes. In the duration of their call, he'd overheated to the point where he's concerned about the melting of his brain.

"It was nice talking to you," Soul says, though he's still catching up to their last forty seconds.

"Yeah, you too," Maka rushes. "Whatever."

She hangs up.

Soul wrenched his headphones off. He isn't sure what to make of it, any of it; the friendly flirting that slithers into his gut and coils warmly among the pooling torment he'd already been subject to. He can easily convince himself that Maka is screwing with him, a revenge so to speak for the years Soul had spent irritating her. But there was something in her voice when he murmured soft replies that Soul desperately wanted to believe was raw honesty.

His face falls as he accepts his second terrible truth of the day: I want Maka to want me.

He can't bring himself to leave bed, or to bother with distractions. All he can think about is carefully taking Maka's jaw in one hand, sliding into her light hair with the other, and pressing his lips gently against her forehead.

He didn't sleep at all that night.