Soul's shoulders ache.

He sinks into the grass of his backyard under the midday sun. It's humid, bright, and noiseless. The soil smells like shit.

His sore muscles relax into the cradle of green blades and soft earth, stinging his skin. Tangles of roots and shredded weeds collect beneath his desperate fingers.

He stares up at the white clouds slowly crossing the blue sky.

The repairman had visited two and a half days prior, and ever since the brittle flow of cool air returned to bite at his feet and trace goosebumps down his neck, he's felt empty. His finds himself wandering in blankets and hoodies, or sitting in the shower steam, clinging to the heat that escapes him.

He's grown weary of chasing after that which destroys him until he's left in raw silence, burned to the core.

He sighs into the sunshine.

Only his dreams have offered a double-edged break from the solitude that consumes him. He's swallowed by images of the blackroom, and the numb swinging of his fists fighting the damned imp. He wakes with fear of bruised hands until he turns on the bedside light, and sees his bare knuckles trembling.

He's been winning. Over, and over, and over.

He woke up in the kitchen this morning, with his cheek pressed to the tile floor and a carton of milk near his chest. He didn't remember falling asleep there. He didn't want to remember sleeping.

You reach for me, Maka had said between peaceful bedsheets and comforting touches.

Discord messages and screenshots floor his life. Questions of where he's gone, endless hours of 'I miss Soul's' from Blackstar and Patty. Why he sits in his dark room, on his empty couch, in his spare room, listening over and over to that stupid song Maka had sent him.

I'm reaching, Soul pours into his horrid collection of notes one night when he'd been too tired to eat, I can't stop reaching.

His phone hums in his pocket. He lets go of the dirt.

Okay Soul, he reads from Blackstar with his phone held high to block the clouds glare. Get back to me when you can.

He's numb to the guilt by now. Blackstar's relentless concern has slowly ebbed into silence as time passes them by.

He scrolls up, and sees the days-old messages he's poured over with scrutinizing commitment. At first, it was every ten minutes that he'd obey the nauseating pull to reread Maka's undoing, then every thirty, then once an hour. It's as if he expects the words to change, somehow, for the letters to meld off the screen and reveal new secrets that he missed before. It blurs together too much for him to know.

It's up to you if you want to tell me or not, Soul had typed.

Blackstar's wall of white bubbles begins with: Alright

I didn't want things to get messy, he wrote, but it seems like you're hurting right now so this is all I have. The night before we did the pvp games and I begged for a distraction, I was on call with Maka, and we were joking around about something you'd said about her facecam earlier that day. She made a comment that she's "glad that stuff doesn't bother her anymore" and when I asked her what that meant, she said she used to have some kind of feelings for you when you guys first became friends. She was very clear with me that it was a short thing that went away completely, and that she's happy it did.

We haven't talked about it since. A couple days later u told me the stuff that was going on in Glenbrook and I just didn't really know what to do. I thought you might want to know. I'm sorry if this is shitty and I just made matters worse.

Soul had felt his lungs collapse. Traces of hope and horror still linger.

Are u okay? Blackstar had sent after a few minutes of radio silence.

Soul? Did I fuck up?

It took Soul four hours to respond with: Okay.

Okay?

His landline started ringing after twelve. He could hear it through the walls, sometimes, voicemails piling up in flashing groups of red. It hurt him to not reply, but any moment his thumbs hovered over the keys to give a piece of himself up, overwhelming dread dragged him away.

Hey man, I'm sorry to keep texting but you're rly worrying me. Call me back.

This isn't cool. Srsly. Pick up.

He's only been able to write to Maka, locked away in a place no one would find him, creating a bottomless thread of doubt and guilt and painful aspiration.

You had feelings for me, He remembers writing late in the night after he's scavenged Blackstar's text for every missing detail, and they left you. The night I dreamt of you, you told him they were gone. Was it at the same time, Maka? Did you feel it happen? Soul had refused to let silent, frustrated tears break his stoic face. Whatever chance I had, I missed it. I missed it. I missed it.

I missed you, didn't I?

He shuts off his phone. Exhaustion chips at his skull from the waves of emotion that have encapsulated him in the long, lifeless turns of recent days.

Once the initial shock had subsided, he's been flooded with arrogant pride that his casual banter and flirtatious language used to make Maka feel. Even if he didn't know, then, why he was saying what he did. Even if it came, and went- Soul felt he's been proven right, and it dripped down his throat like glory.

Then the bitter taste of timeless green ushered him into the depths of his curiosity. What exactly was it that Maka used to want from him? To lace their warm fingers together, to press her lips to Soul's jaw, or unlock cold metal and slide the leather belt from his waistband hooks? Desperation struck Soul with dark fury, reminiscent of when he'd hungered for what Maka dreamt about so long ago.

The empty airport, the blurred face, Maka stumbling over her words with enough brevity to make Soul wonder. His mouth connected with maka's forehead- but how likely could it be that his kiss lingered, slipped down, softly tugged on Maka's lips and stole her breath in seconds?

Yet that was in the before- before the nightmare, the games of valorant, the late night calls and whistling rain. In a matter of days, hours, minutes apart, Maka had told Blackstar she felt nothing while Soul began to feel everything.

Did Maka lie then, too? Gentle hints say yes, say pin me down, say make me yours.

Moisture from the warm ground seeps into the back of Soul's t-shirt. He glances at the dirt underneath his fingernails.

Maka is a careful construction of boundaries, imaginary weapons, wordless shields. Her flirtatious jokes are guarded; few and far between. Soul's insinuations rebound and he's learned through endless trial and error what passes, what doesn't. He pushes, and Maka fights him- constantly.

He can't make himself believe it wasn't the truth.

Light sweat graces his skin.

He's tired of losing himself in these recursive thoughts, ever since Maka staggered into the Blackroom and into his heart.

They kept trying to ask me about your dream, he remembers Maka's voice with painful clarity.

His blatant, hollow, weary-eyes lie withers in his chest: There's not much else to know. Nothing really happened.

If only he'd been stronger, he could have pulled Maka back in. If only he'd been wiser, he could have pulled himself away.

The sun distorts his vision. Tree branches sway in the distance.

If only he could go back, and observe it all over again- to pinpoint if he truly, really missed it.


"I can see you hovering around the corner, move your ass and stop camping, please. Soul, help me!"

The old audio of Blackstar's desperation pitches frantically from the speakers of Soul's monitors. Light bounces off his dark walls as he watches match replays.

Hot ceramic stings his palm as he cups a bowl of ramen near his chest, twirling his fork into the steaming brother. He lifts the noodles to his mouth, and lets them burn his tongue.

"What am I supposed to do?" He hears his own voice say distantly.

"Distract Maka, I don't know! Do something!"

The metal neck of his fork stills against the side of the bowl.

On his screen, Maka's face beams. "That's not going to work-"

Soul's nose screws up as he mockingly mouths over himself, listening to the awful confession, "I had a dream about you."

He watches, closely, the surprise that lifts Maka's eyebrows and whips her jaw away from the monitor. Her bright eyes gleam with confusion. The same embarrassment Soul had felt in that moment tugs on his gut again, until he catches wind of what he hadn't noticed before.

He sees it, recognizes it. The way that Maka held her breath.

His chest aches.

"Yes! Yes! You lost me, I'm gone baby!"

The clip fades away.

He hates that he brought himself here, watching the match replays autoplay mindlessly load, letting the warm smell of salt and oils permeate his closed room. He observed the orange of sunset quietly leave the sky through his window, and fell inwards. He missed Maka's voice. The collections of match replays are a goldmine to hear her laugh, yell, tease, and complain- hours of memorable jokes and soft moments that define them.

It was a relief, at first, until Soul started to pick up on old patterns in his speech and strange pauses in their conversations that he'd never truly known. Quick compliments scattered here and there, hysterics that lack full justification, murmurs that indicate a depth he's been blind to.

For a moment, he's convinced he can hear it, the private fondness in Maka's tone when she says his name.

Then Soul wanders again, and the clips keep rolling until the most recent replay.

He glances at the date- and tenses, hastily sitting up and pressing pause.

The ramen is set onto his desk with slow caution. He wipes the condensation collected on his hands from the bowl onto his sweats.

Can I do this, he asks himself lightly. The frozen image of Maka, in her hoodie, leaning back in her chair, waits patiently before him.

He's not sure if reliving it is a great idea. The burns have yet to scar. He bites his tongue.

"Stop screwing with me," Maka's trembling tone saturates Soul's headphones the moment he clicks play.

Soul's eyes flutter. Fuck.

"You always do this." He sees irritated fear in Maka's gaze, and drinks it ardently. "Soul… oh my god- Soul."

His heart races. He leans closer to the monitor.

"I'm gonna hang up." Maka mutters.

Her thumb reaches for the end-call button, jaw wired with tension, and Soul relishes in the very moment the flames of his own words creep into Maka's ears and light something in his soul.

The phone falls from Maka's hand, her lips part, her chest rises- and Soul pauses the replay.

His fist clenches. After a moment, he brings it down against the desk with a bang.

"Goddammit," he breathes.

He angrily opens his notes.

I saw it, he vents, in your stupid, pretty face, I saw that for a moment, you wanted it to come true. You wanted it to be me, kissing you. Right?

He looks up at the image of pure shock and wide-eyes on his screen, chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes flit over Maka's expression.

Right? His head slowly falls. Or… am I doing this, again? You were never serious about wanting me. Even when I asked. Even when you lied.

His heart sinks.

Would you lie to me, Maka?

He stares at the noodles floating in the broth. His appetite is gone.

He scrolls down to escape Maka's complicated face, and his a barricade of comments running through his head.

I see why the discord thought she was super upset. Blackstar hasn't even been active in the chats recently too.

Soul frowns.

He worries his lower lip. Blackstar has been bearing the weight of both SOul's troubled behavior, and Maka's vulnerable confession. It couldn't have been easy when he was called from Glenbrook- paralyzed by loyalty and loss in a situation that wasn't his to solve, then later asked to buffer two months in advance.

The responding thread below reads: Nah I think you're looking into it too much. Whatever this cono was seemed weird but the Nevada trip is def gonna happen.

He remembers the darkness.

So you just wanted to watch, his mind echoes-

"Stop," he pleads in a breath to himself.

Is that it? His throat aches. My voice?

I think you'd, "Oh god," leave bruises.

His head falls into his hands.

That would be nice, wouldn't it?

The images collapse in his mind; bare skin, slender hands, soft lips. Whispered confessions, the tremor over the phone line; sweet, fantasized sounds.

It morphs again into a different pain he is slowly becoming familiar with, beyond wanting forbidden tastes and commanding touches. If he could recreate the gentle moments in his dream, with Maka's chest beating against his own. If he could get the chance to make Maka smile. To show her she's loved.

Soul's fingers tangle into her hair.

He feels pathetic that this is all he has.


Warm water glides over his wrists, washing suds down the drain and soothing the calluses on his palms. The blacksleeves of his hoodie have been pushed up to his elbows. He shuts off the faucet, resting his forearms against the kitchen sink.

The last of his noodles are noisily chewed by the garbage disposal.

He idly sets his dishes on the drying rack, shaking droplets from his hands, and the landline begins to ring.

He stares at the dark box perched on the counter with keypad numbers glowing green. Regret seeths into his chest as he lets it reverberate through the empty kitchen, echo off the ceilings, and eventually fade into another blinking voice message.

He brings himself closer to the receiver.

Blackstar said he'd stop calling. What if the late-night ring is truely for an emergency?

Soul rubs the scruff gathered on his jaw, and nervously presses the button to listen to the incoming voicemail.

"-brother, Blake left me a message wondering if I'd heard from you and he sounded pretty uptight. I just wanted to check in, and make sure everything is okay. I know you two have had your issues in the past, and just wanted to remind you that these things have a way of working themselves out-"

Soul picks up the phone reflexively. "Hello? Wes?"

"Oh! Soul, what a nice surprise," He says. "I thought I'd missed you."

The room grows colder.

"Wes," He repeats quietly.

His voice softens. "What's going on?"

"I- um," he words catch in his throat, and tearful desperation wells inside him without warning. It rises threateningly close to the brim, until he grips the cold counter, and remembers who he's talking to.

"I'm sorry to worry you," He says, "You didn't have to call."

"You didn't need to pick up," He levies.

He winces.

"Look," He says, "I get that you can take care of yourself. You don't have to keep proving that to me." His tone begins to tiptoe with caution. "But the last time he called me like that, you weren't doing so well. You didn't let me help you then, either."

"I didn't need your help," he assures. He doesn't like to think about his teenage dramatics years ago.

"What about now?" His question is met with silence. "Don't hurt yourself by lying, Soul."

"I don't mean to be distant," he mutters. "It just happens. I feel bad that I push that on Blake so much. It happens too often to him."

"He sounded worried." He says, "Not tired of you."

Soul clenches his jaw. "We didn't fight."

"Okay. So what did happen?"

Tension squeezes his temples as he searches for the right point- the right beginning.

"I went back to Glenbrook," he whispers, wide-eyed as his mouth begins to spill. "I started driving in the middle of the night and couldn't stop, I slept on the floor of the piano room and I-I hardly had enough gas to get home but I just… I just…" His voice dies.

After a moment, his brother says, "Why would you do that?"

His heart hammers. "Did mom love him?"

"Soul, you-" he hears him sigh. "Of course she did."

"She was so…" Soul struggles to find his words. "Does she still miss him?"

Wes thinks for a moment, "...Every once in a while she does. But… it seems like she let that pain go. She is happier now, and it's been so long, you know." Timid silence stretches between them. Carefully, he asks, "Where is this coming from?"

He squeezes the slender plastic of the phone in his hand, shutting his eyes. He thinks of the black room, Maka's smile, the heat, Maka's laugh, the rain, Maka's voice.

Soul parts his lips, and tells him everything.

He accepts it with gentle solemnity.

He takes a seat at his kitchen table as they talk, for hours, about sunny memories and old photographs and current heartache. He lets him know that he accidently added his favorite meal from a local restaurant when they'd ordered dinner a few nights prior. Soul lets Wes know that Blair keeps bringing feathered toys into a specific corner of his room despite his protests. Apparently, his mother had been thinking of making a big appearance change with her hair. Apparently, she's worried about him, too.

"Tell her I miss her," Soul says, "Okay? Would you?"

"I promise you, she knows." A tentative pause passes before Wes slowly voices, "Sometimes, you hold onto people a little tighter than you have to. I know it's hard. But it's okay to… to-"

"Lose." he mutters, "to lose. I'm still… learning how to do that."

"Give it time."

"Okay," He says. "I will. Thanks Wes."

The night weighs on his tone after they've finished discussing the next time Soul will come visit, and he lets him put their conversation to an end.

He retreats into the silence of his desolate room, and crawls back to the ever-growing notes.

I talked to my brother about you, He writes. A small smile forms on his face. He still wants you over for dinner, you know.

The bed sighs beneath him as he leans back against the headboard, phone hanging from his limp wrist.

He can almost grasp at the golden threads dangling in the canopy of his mind. If he follows them out of the dark undergrowth, there's a hopeful future of sun and warmth waiting just above the surface. Maka holding Blair in her arms, answering his brother's flurry of questions, politely complimenting his mothers cooking. Passing napkins, pouring water, asking for recipes.

Brushing their cotton socks together under the table, tangling feet and light squeezes on thighs. Quick smiles, sweet laughter, his lips gently pecking Maka's cheek.

Something domestic. Something loving.

It gnaws at the tense muscles underneath his ribcage terribly.

Sometimes, he types, all I think about is you.

His face sinks with bitter dread. If Maka truly is happier that whatever she used to feel is gone, then none of it will matter. He won't get to hold her close on holiday evenings, or stay up late to learn stories of their youths, or rest a chin on her head as they stand and watch the rain.

He takes to the keyboard on his phone with steep misery. Was it all a joke? Did you know that it would undo me? Did you try to hurt me?

He reads over the trail of words his frantic-moving fingers created, and exhales in tired sorrow.

That's not fair, I know, he confesses, I'm just angry all the time, because I- he hesitates- was closer to you than I ever thought I'd be. And it terrified me. It still terrifies me, but… you're not here, anymore. You're not here, and I can't think, and I can't keep doing this.

He wants to be justified in his hatred of Maka leaving, but can't make the feeling stay. What is it going to be like, when she comes back?

Soul pales rapidly. In all the years they've known each other, any instance where he's been sworn to secrecy against Maka has fallen to shambles in minutes.

Will he be able to hear her voice, knowing what he knows now, without breaking? To see her eyes in two months time, and lie with every fiber of his being, every slip of his tongue, without fail?

The impossibility garners him weak. They're doomed to break; to fail. If he's not strong enough, their friendship won't be either.

If it was all for nothing, his fingers shake against the screen, then maybe I should just tell you everything. Maybe I should just fuck everything up.

He drags his touch across the glass, selecting every snippet of text he's accumulated over the past frenzy of days.

He copies it.

He opens their messages.

He pastes it.

Do I have anything left to lose?

He stares at the waiting message for a moment longer, before adrenaline and reality swiftly nail him in the gut.

"What the fuck am I doing," He hisses, running a hand through his hair. He can't, not in the spur of the moment, not ever- his heart is in those words, his soul is wrapped between the lines and bleeding over each putrid vowel.

He hastily drops his phone. He can't. He needs to float back down. He needs to calm.

The quiet of his room is broken by a small ding. He looks down at his thread with Maka, and above the waiting block of notes, a new message has appeared.

Soul's eyes widen.

A new message from Maka.

Hi there, it says.

Confusion and elation rise to warm Soul's cheeks. His brain scrambles to recount the days that slipped behind him- from when he'd been alone, and dreamed, and been alone, and talked with the discord, and then been alone again.

Did a week pass by already?

He picks up his phone, his trembling hands moving in haste to delete his pasted words, and falters at the sound of a gentle whoosh.

The glowing disaster spills across his screen.

He misclicked.

He accidentally pressed send.

The text went through.