Beneath the purple haze of an early morning sky, traffic lights silently flick red to green. The road is quiet, and empty, and peppered with loose asphalt. The blue numbers on Soul's stereo read 7:04.
His car frame shudders as he accelerates through the intersections.
He isn't sure how long he's been driving; it was dark when he'd stumbled down his driveway, dropped his keys on the concrete, and clambered into his seat. Now, a hint of sun slowly transforms the clouds above him into faint pink streaks. Stray vehicles begin to join his solemn trek across the barren streets with every passing minute.
Soul clenches his leather steering wheel. He'd been tossing and turning in the black molasses trap that is his room for so long, micro-analyzing every word he's said to Maka in the entirety of their friendship, that he had to leave. He had to. To go somewhere, anywhere, away from his computer and digital life and his ridiculous madness.
He started driving aimlessly for the first hour or so, but once a location had settled on his shoulders, he knew it was inevitable.
His phone maps the way for him silently.
He tried to ignore the deep-seated embarrassment that gnaws at him every time his car slows. The murmurs and callous language that had fallen from his mouth reattach themselves into his mind- why, why, hadn't he stopped himself last night? He'd been flooded with hormones that made him feel like he was thirteen again, desperately clearing the browser history on his mother's laptop before she came home.
It's not as if they haven't had close calls before, because they have, but the sheer strength of it hasn't existed until now. The way Maka's words seemed so genuine, the way Soul felt like he could take every slight breath that passed through the phone and run with it until it brought them both to a dangerous place. It was hardly anything, but in Soul's idea of their strange friendship, it was more than enough to warrant a minor meltdown.
His foot presses on the gas pedal forcefully. Self control is what he needs now.
He turns, chest tightening as his parents waterfront house on the horizon comes into view. Does impulsively driving across the state with a dangerously low fuel gauge count as self control?
He pulls to a stop, and steps out of the car. The keys jangle faintly in his hand while his hoodie hangs limp in the other. A breeze brushes against the back of his neck.
He moves to the back of the house where that damned room was.
It's been over thirteen years since he's been back here, in person, and the lake looks different than he remembers. The murky water is now a dull green, and the shore is cluttered by his parents' lounge chairs. He glances at his shoes, nudging a stray cigar butt on the ground. A strange feeling creeps down his spine- emptiness? Closure? He can't tell.
He surveys to lake shore quietly, before entering the black and white checkered room, remembering the excited shrieks and playful games he'd been surrounded by here as a child. The feel of a strong warm hand in his, the sound of his mothers gentle voice. Sheet music, and the sound of piano keys melding with his brother's violin.
He lowers himself to the floor. When had this place become so ugly; in the waking world, and in his heart?
It's pretty, Maka had said in his dream.
Because of you.
The early morning sun peaks through the windowed door. Soul brushes his fingertips over his nose and mouth instinctively. His skin is soft and smooth, yet still untouchable. A dull ache pains beneath his ribcage- how long has he been alone like this?
Is this place the last time he felt whole?
His back falls to the floor with a heavy thump. The ceiling looks like it shifts above him, and he blinks blearily. It'd be a rational idea for him to head home, soon. Yet, a sinking weight tugs on his limbs to rest for a moment in the dusk light from the window. He's been up for what feels like decades, constantly fighting tooth and nail against every thought that clambers into his brain.
He wants the anger to subside. He wants to feel without it slowly becoming more laced with hurt.
The world darkens as his eyelids flutter shut.
Just for a moment, he thinks, just for now.
He naps for two and a half hours.
The loud ringing of his phone startles him away, and he sits up immediately. He sees the piano before him, feels his skin sticking to the tiled floor, and panic begins to rise in his throat. He grasps at his phone with a shaky hand.
"H-hello?" He glances around rapidly. When he catches the sight of small children splashing in the lake outside, he stills.
He's safe, this is real.
"Soul," Blackstar says, "Hey."
"What- uh, why did you call?" The fluorescent lights beat down on his eyes as he unsticks himself from the tiled floor.
"I wanted to talk to you. Actually, do you want to switch to Discord? I'm in the middle of a round." He hears the jumbled clicking of Blackstar's keyboard.
Soul rises to his feet, muscles groaning in protest. "I can't."
"Why not?" Blackstar asks.
"Um." Soul shakes off his hoodie. "I'm in Glenbrook.
The clicking stops. "What? Why?"
"It was an accident," he says.
Blackstar falls silent.
"... You drove, like, four hours on accident?"
"Three and a half," Soul corrects. He feels ridiculous. "Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not making fun of you," Blackstar says, "this is exactly why I called. You've been weird lately."
He frowns. It hasn't been that long. "Lately?"
"Yeah, man. For a while now, but I really… really didn't want to make it anybody's business unless I had to, y'know?" Blackstar clears his throat. "I guess the past few days have changed that. You seem extra weird."
Soul passes a family that stares at him as he walks out of the house's back door. "Trust me, I know."
"Okay, well." Blackstar's voice softens, "you know you can talk to me, right? I know you're kind of closer to Maka these days, but I'm still here."
His heart pangs. "Of course I know that. I love you, dude." He stops at his car, and leans against the driver's side door. "I hope you know that even if we get kind of busy and don't talk as much as we used to, it doesn't mean we're not close anymore. And as for me, and Maka, I… that's the problem. Maka. I think. I'm not sure."
"Maka?" Blackstar reiterates, confused.
"Maka," Soul confesses, laced with isolated warmth and gentle sorrow. He squeezes his keys in his palm, the metal ridges digging into his flesh.
"Oh."
"Yeah," he says. "I-I don't really know what to do."
Blackstar clears his throat, "I mean, I'm glad that you told me. I'm sure that wasn't easy. But… she cares about you a lot, man. Like a lot, a lot."
"Exactly. I feel like a creep." Soul looks out at the lake, children building sandcastles where he'd grown up. "It's all because of that stupid dream."
"The Blackroom one you were talking about?" Blackstar asks. "What happened?"
Soul laughs stiffly. "Guess."
"I think I know." Blackstar says.
"Then, guess, dude, don't make me say it."
"Well I don't want to say it! What if I'm wrong?"
They both become silent. Soul sighs.
"I kissed her, Blackstar," he mutters, "Like, really kissed her. When I woke up I thought that was the end of it, y'know? People have weird dreams like that all the time. But then what I felt just… didn't go away." he kicks a lone piece of gravel with his shoe. "It's still not going away."
"Maybe it's worth more than that to you, then." Blackstar takes a pause, and continues with caution in his voice, "Also, I don't think it all came from nowhere."
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I'm saying that you probably, I don't know, had these feelings for her before." Blackstar says.
Feelings. "Um."
"Sorry, was that not-"
"No, no, don't worry about it." Soul swallows. "Maybe you have a point. Either way, I'm in this shit now. How do I get out?"
"Do you want out?" Blackstar asks.
"I-" Soul falters, not expecting the word yes to get caught in his throat. "I want her."
Blackstar coughs awkwardly.
Soul turns red. "Sorry."
"It's fine, just something to get used to. Have you… talked to her about how you feel?"
"I can't do that, she'd freak out. You know how she gets even when I'm joking," Soul says.
"You do get under her skin," Blackstar says, "not in a gross way, though. If she had a real problem with it she'd ask you to stop."
Soul scoffs. "Seriously? This is Maka. She hates confrontation."
"Dunno. She seems fine confronting you." He hears Blackstar's lips smack a few times.
"That doesn't mean anything- wait." he pauses to listen. "Are you eating?"
Blackstar chews. "Yes."
"In the middle of my super emotional conversation?"
"It's my lunch."
"It's so loud, Blackstar. What is that, taffy?" His nose scrunches in disgust.
"Peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Blackstar corrects. "Have you eaten anything today?"
He rolls his eyes. "No. Don't mom me."
"I will. You're talking to me about girl trouble, so I qualify. Eat something."
"I'm not hungry," Soul says.
Blackstar makes a noise of disbelief. "It's a really sweet peanut-almond mix, with strawberry jam. Toasted."
He feels a grumble in his stomach. "Goddamnit."
"Get food," Blackstar says, "and go home, Jesus."
Soul begrudgingly leans off the car and opens his door. "Maka doesn't confront me. It doesn't mean anything," he repeats. Waves of heat radiate from inside the vehicle, making him wince. He should have at least cracked a window or two when he'd parked- this is going to be a nightmare.
"Oh come on, Soul. She calls you out all the time to make you like, piss yourself or something." Blackstar chuckles lightly.
"Yeah, but- oh my god, it's too hot right now." He lowers himself into the seat. "But that's just her joking around. She's not serious." He tugs the door shut, immediately rolling down the windows once the keys are in the ignition. The air outside is a few degrees less hellish than inside his portable oven, but not enough to provide relief.
"Don't you think that when you're actually saying stuff, she just thinks you're joking too?" Blackstar questions.
His fingers hastily shove at the air conditioning controls. A small, cool burst is all he needs. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."
"That maybe she's just mimicking you," Blackstar says, "Maybe she wants you, too."
A blast of scorching air attacks his face from the dusty vents immediately, flooding the car with suffocating billows of heat. It smells like pain.
"Wh-" Soul coughs, smacking the vents sloppily, mind on fire. "What?"
"She said the other day that-"
The phone beeps twice.
"Blackstar? Blackstar?" Soul takes the phone from his sweaty face to stare at a black screen. Rapidly squeezing the home button, a dead battery signal faintly pops up.
He rests it on his thigh. Of course.
With the back of his hand, he wipes his forehead. He often forgets that Blackstar knows him too well.
He reaches for the cord and silently plugs in his phone. This is exactly why he'd avoided their conversation, knowing full well it would come around to him eventually. His heart races. Why should he believe him, anyway?
The hunger in his stomach prods at him politely. Glancing around the floor of his car, he realizes that when he'd manically left his house in the middle of the night, he hadn't cared to bring his wallet. Or his drivers license.
He cranks the gear shift into drive in preparation of a miserable ride home.
Eventually, when the air conditioning has cooled to a tolerable degree, he sees his phone flash to life. He quickly routes his way home, and sets it down as his music unknowingly begins to shuffle.
From his busted speakers, he hears a few words of the song Maka sent him crackle through.
He glares at the watery mirage on the sunny street ahead of him, and slams on the gas.
Nearly four hours later, he's five slices deep in a large pepperoni pizza he'd desperately ordered half an hour away from his house. Blair is perched on the counter and waiting for the inevitable moment of weakness where he'll give her a snack.
He'd tried to not think too much about what Blackstar said on his drive. It was easy to ignore, anyway, with the sweat pooling by his armpits and angry tailgating locals. But once he'd rolled into his driveway and peeled himself from the leather seat, a complicated elation set in.
Maybe she wants you too.
What kind of statement was that to say to someone in his situation? He rips up a piece of crust angrily. As if it wasn't already bad enough.
His phone vibrates against his leg, and he sighs. Blackstar had texted him a few times but Soul isn't sure if it'll be a good idea to answer. Still, he wipes off the grease from one hand to check, dangling a piece of pizza in the other.
Hey, Maka sent, We haven't really talked in like, a day. Is everything okay? Did I do something?
He immediately drops the slice and frantically begins to type back. No, no, no, of course not. I've just been-
He pauses. How can he describe the last eighteen hours of his life?
-doing a lot of driving, so I haven't been on my phone. I actually just got home.
Oh sorry, ignore my other text then, Maka says. Home from where?
Soul chews hesitantly. Glenbrook.
How come?
His thumb hovers over the letters for a while until he responds. I dont know how to explain it. I just had to clear my head.
That's worrisome, Maka says.
Soul huffs, I have pizza now so it's ok.
That's good, Maka responds, How did you sleep?
On a tile floor, Soul types, then deletes it. I kind of- He aggressively hits the backspace button.
I didn't, he finally confesses. He tries, and fails, to not think about the clipped breaths he'd heard leave Maka's mouth the night before.
He picks a piece of pepperoni off the remaining slices and tosses it to Blair. She gently bends her head while chewing over the cold countertop. In the time it takes for Maka to reply, he's grown antsy enough to give her another.
Why's that? Maka asks.
Soul smirks. Why do you think, he sends too quickly.
Nightmares?
He thinks of the dark heat of his room, his calloused palm on his chest, Maka's words ringing in his ears as his self-restraint thinned greatly. Resisting the searing force that wanted, more than anything, to drag his hand down across his stomach and disappear in the darkness below.
Something like that, he responded.
Sorry to keep you up late then, Maka says.
He mutters, "You have no idea,"
It's fine, Soul texts, I liked hearing your voice.
A glowing confidence begins to trickle into his chest again. What is it about talking with KMaka that always gives him a cradle of comfort? She makes me feel safe, he thinks. His cheeks flush, and he blames it on the humidity.
You're just lonely. Maka reponds.
Soul grins, raising his cup to his lips. Come be lonely with me.
Stop.
You keep giving me the opportunity, he texts happily, It's almost like you secretly enjoy it.
It's hot, Maka says.
Soul chokes on his water.
NOT, Maka sends frantically, not not not. It's not. Oh my god.
A warm laugh escapes his lips. His head spins with flustered surprise and deep amusement. This is too good to be true.
Oh really? He sends.
Maka quickly answers. Shut up.
You think I'm hot?
Typos happen, Soul, Maka types in a manor Soul imagines is angry. He can picture her pinched brows, her nervous hands rubbing her face in embarrassment.
You didn't deny it, He points out.
Do you not get many compliments? Is that why you're so obsessed with this? Maka asks.
That's really flattering for you to say, especially since you haven't seen me, he continues, setting down his phone to pack up the leftover pizza.
It vibrates against the cold counter.
I've seen parts of you.
He raises his eyebrows. The words arch, draw back, and span as he takes his shot: You wanna see more?
Maka says: Yes.
The arrow lands right in his heart.
What do you want to see, he types slowly, breath becoming uneven. The light swoosh that signifies the text went through makes his skin crawl. He slides his phone away, busily clearing the pizza box and napkins.
He scoops Blair up anxiously. She doesn't protest besides lightly hooking her claws into his shirt.
Maka texts him back.
You have nice hands, it says.
His breath escapes his body in a warm rush. The low fire within him roars to life. Are they joking anymore? This would be reasonable for Maka to mess with him about, as she and Blackstar had teased him relentlessly when he would post the occasionally obscured instagram photo.
If only Maka knows how his hands tremble as he opens Snapchat. He aims the camera at his chest, capturing Blair and his supporting hand buried in her fur.
Here you go, he captions.
He presses send- knuckles, viens, and all. He can't overthink this.
Maka opens it.
Maka has taken a screenshot.
Soul groans. He swipes into their Snapchat conversation and furiously types: You bitch.
I'm gonna leak this on twitter, Maka says. And not because of Blair.
Soul fights a smile. Yeah right.
Do you want to test me?
If you tweet that, Soul types, I'll send Blackstar screenshots of you calling me hot.
He wouldn't believe that, Maka fires back.
Soul sends her a frowny face.
You rly live for validation, Maka texts.
Yes. Soul is setting Blair down onto the floor when genius strikes. He nervously types: just admit it, Maka. I think you're hot, why don't you say it back?
Maka views the message, and hesitates before replying; I really hate you right now.
I'm telling the truth.
You're not, Maka replies.
His heart pounds. Send me a selfie. Prove me wrong.
When Maka doesn't immediately begin typing back, Soul's anxiety skyrockets. Maka and Blackstar send dumb photos to him all the time, often from cursed angles or covered with enlarged words. He's never asked for it before, because it's not something friends do.
A red square pops up on his screen, and he clicks on it.
His mouth runs dry.
Maka sent him a partial selfie, showing the lower half of her face beneath her eyes, with her hand near her chest flipping off the camera. Soul would normally crack a smile, or quickly respond- but his gaze rakes over Maka's lips, the smooth shapes of her jaw, the exposed skin on her neck. Her cheeks are dusted pink, accompanied by light speckles that Soul knows are there but had hardly seen before.
It explodes in Soul's chest all at once; how badly he wants to grab a fistful of Maka's hoodie, kiss her senseless, and lower her to her knees. He could stroke his fingers across her ivory jaw. He could tilt her chin, have Maka look up at him with her bright, gleaming eyes. Run a thumb across her swollen lips. How easily would they part under his touch?
"Fuck." Soul runs a hand through his hair. That is too far, too much. This is too much.
You're too much, Maka had whispered, rosy-cheeked and breath hot.
"Nope," he breathes, pocketing his phone and rushing to his bathroom. "Nope, nope, nope."
His hands shake as he flicks on the light and grasps the marble sink. In the mirror, his disheveled reflection drips with sweat and shame. Shadows fall over his eyes from the tension in his brow.
How did I get like this?
He turns on the faucet, cursing himself for letting something so small, so innocent, writhe under his skin and possess his mind.
He cups his palms under the cold stream, and splashes his face.
Was it innocent? Does Maka know what she's doing?
His phone rattles again. Soul lifts the bottom of his shirt to dry his dripping jaw.
Did i prove you wrong, Maka asks.
Soul lets out a highly exasperated huff. No, he types, you most certainly did not.
Yeah right.
Always a joke. Never serious, never real, never honest.
He steps away from the sink, letting his back press against the cool tile walls. What can I do to make you believe me? He asks.
The pale light hovering over the mirror hums quietly. Droplets fall, rhythmically, into the sink drain. Soul's pulse pressed against the edges of his skull like clockwork.
Call me.
Soul's eyes widen. Can he bear to hear Maka's voice without sinking deeper into this tangled mess of warmth and want? His fingers still above the glowing screen, and he contemplates his self control. Their last call had sent him across Nevada- what would this one do?
He dials Maka's number immediately.
"You actually called," Maka says once she's picked up, and the sound of her words make Soul melt.
"Of course," he attempts to hide his fondness. "You told me to. I couldn't say no."
"How nice of you," Maka replies, laughing lightly. "Simp."
Soul's eyes scrape the white ceiling nervously. "I'm the simp? You asked for pics of my hands earlier. That's pretty embarrassing, Maka."
"You asked for a selfie," Maka counters. "Which one is worse?"
"Fair enough," Soul says. He slides down to the fuzzy bathroom rug. "You could ask for one too, if you wanted."
"I don't want to force you," Maka recites easily. "I'm happy with what I've seen so far."
He smiles. "Oh really?"
"Mhm."
"What if I could make you happier?" He presses, a dopey grin hanging off his features.
Maka clicks her tongue. "Easy, tiger."
Soul's face grows warm. The air of the bathroom glides over the hum in his cheeks, as he dares to ask, "Is this going to become a nightly thing?"
"What do you mean?" Maka questions, but the edges are nervous. Knowing.
"These phone calls," he says, unable to keep softness from his tone.
Maka hums, contemplatively. "Well, yeah. I mean, we're on calls together all the time."
Soul can feel the hot circulation crushing the back of his neck, the hair on his forearms; the exposed skin of his throat. His voice is low. "But this is different- just you and me, right?"
He hates the way 'you and me' falls from his lips, sounding like a secret.
He can nearly see it- Maka in her room, phone held to her ear, stilled by the subtle change in tone. How badly Soul wishes he could be there next to her, to see her face and know if any of their conversations are truly real.
"Yeah," Maka murmurs, "It is."
Soul's eyes flutter shut in silent relief. The agreement blankets the space between them, words leap to the tip of his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep himself at bay.
"You know, you- uhm," Maka stumbles, and clears her throat. "The way you talk to me is different when it's just us, too."
His grip on his phone tightens slightly. "Really?"
"Your voice is softer," Maka explains quietly, "and bright. Like you've never been sad before."
Soul's eyes slowly open. He stares at the space between the stark counter and the porcelain bowl before him, paralyzed by his nerves. His lips part in response- but for once, he doesn't know what to say.
"And you laugh is so genuine. Even when I've not said anything funner, you still laugh, and the sound is just… infectious," Maka says. "You have no idea how much it makes me smile."
"I'm glad I can make you feel that way," Soul breathes finally. Through the small window in the shower, he can hear wind swaying the trees in his backyard. He wishes, more than anything, that he could see Maka smile whenever he wanted; listen to her speak his name, face to face. "I should make more excuses to call you, then."
"I'd like that," Maka mutters.
Soul wraps a hand around his bicep, and squeezes. He can feel his pulse flaring beneath his fingertips. How much more of this can he take, before he combusts into confetti of red diesire? Or drags himself back to the steering wheel? Or, even worse, obtain a plane ticket?
"Maka," he says, throat tight. "Can I ask you something?"
"Oh, sure."
He lets the phone's electric hum fill their silence, for a moment. Then, he takes a breath.
"Would you want to come to Nevada?"
