As the days begin to pass, Soul slips into July. It welcomes him with pink sunsets and grilled meals and ice gently tapping the side of tea-filled glasses. Humid nights drag him away from his screens and stuffy room, and onto his brothers back patio for frequent conversations over dinner.

His call had ended with Blackstar and Maka after they'd grown heavy-eyed, and parted ways with timid goodbyes. The separation felt strange, somewhere between empty and fll shared in one space. He'd been too exhausted to cry, too wordless to think. He felt the urge to text Maka once he'd fallen into his cotton and sheets, but for once, he knew they truly had nothing left to talk about.

He slept for a while. He woke with ease.

The days- quiet, hurting, healing- pass. He spends hours playing with Blair and wandering aimlessly around his home. His tears fall to the tile floor as he sits dragging a toy back and forth. He breathes, takes the nearby landline in his palm, and makes three phone calls.

One, to the therapist he hadn't seen since he was young and gangly and brooding.

The next, to his brother.

The last, to the local taqueria for an extra-sized steak burrito.

July sets warm, yellow hands on his shoulders as he slides the phone back into the receiver. His chest aches, and his eyes burn.

He lets himself move forward.

During late-afternoon meals at his brothers home two hours away, a buzzing sound carries onto the concrete deck from the creek sitting deep in the backyard.

Seated at the glassy table, Soul swats away curious gnats from his plate with one palm, while the other is outstretched and blocking Wes from picking off his plate.

"I'm really glad to hear that, Soul," His mother says from the head of the table, reclined in her chair with a gentle smile. "Have you scheduled an appointment?"

Soul chews on the remains of his burger, nodding and swatting the back of Wes's hand hard.

"Ow. When?" Wes asks curiously.

He swallows, then wipes the grease from his face with a napkin. "Next Sunday."

"You might miss the barbeque," His mother points out.

Soul shrugs with indifference, "I'll try to make it."

Wes tosses his trash onto his own plate, leaning back in his chair. "Didn't you used to go on Tuesdays, though?"

He frowns with skepticism, watching as he cleans the table. "How'd you remember that?"

He'd been forced to attend weekly sessions with Dr. Stein several years ago, when his questionably rebellious behavior had raised one too many red flags for his family and the local authorities. He'd detested them at first, but found towards the end of their time together, some part of him thrived in expression and guidance.

Too young to admit it was something he needed at the time, he declined the offer to continue as a client, but was told "the door was always open."

He and his mother hadn't shared much of those terrible months with his brother, yet Wes smiles at him sharply.

"Because I'm smart." He says.

He huffs. "Yeah, right. I find that hard to believe."

Wes glares at him with a mocking face. Soul parrots it back at him before his mother interrupts their bickering.

"You might want to get going soon. It's nearly dark enough for the show to start."

Soul balls up his napkin and begins to stack utensils on his plate. "Are they really still doing it? I thought there was a temporary ban because of the shack that caught fire last year."

His mother extends her plate towards him, and he adds it to the pile in his hands. "I think Roy and his family are still good friends with the sheriff," She says, "So they got the go-ahead."

"Huh." Soul exits his seat with the last of the dishes, and haphazardly carries them to the screen entrance. "Okay, well, if you wanna wait outside for me, I'll be there in like, five minutes."

He presses his back to the door to push it open, the metal springs straining audibly with resistance as he steps inside.

"Five minutes?" He sees Wes set down his glass, and wipe his chin. "Slowpoke."

He rolls his eyes. "You could help, you know."

They stare at each other through the thinly-netted screen as the ajar door is pulled shut, until his brother glances at the dishes, and looks away dismissively.

He grins.

When washing the ceramic plates, and tossing the napkins in the trash, he scrapes the plates dutifully.

He's tugged several blocks down the street, where the neighborhood parents have set up a small celebration on the suburban intersection. When Wes tosses a smile back at him, he decides that being with family isn't as bad as it used to be.

He eyes the cylinders and dark boards resting on the asphalt, and they share an excited glance.

They stand in the freshly-mowed grass of the neighbors lawn, darkness cozying around them while the local kids and parents form a small crowd.

A young woman from two doors down passes by them, kindly extending miniature, hand held flags and beaded necklaces. They murmur thank you's and tug the plastic jewelry over their heads happily.

Soul spins the cheap flag in his hand, watching the older neighborhood boys approach the dormant fireworks with keen adult supervision. He remembers sparking the fuse for the first time when he was a kid, holding the long lighter in his small grip and intense responsibility in his mind. He'd been fond and scared, even then, of getting burned.

The wick lights, and the boys scatter away.

Soul and Wes wait.

The box cackles, then whistles, and the first rocket shoots into the dark air. They eyes tilt up to follow as it trails a glamping jet of light.

It climbs, and climbs, until finally exploding in a flowered spread of red and white sparkle against the star backdrop of the sky. Heartbeats after, a second one combusts, then a third, and the night is filled with such bright color and noise that Soul's chest grows warm.

The burning is beautiful.

He reaches for the back pocket of his jeans instinctively, pulling out his phone with a smile.

Another burst glitters into the accumulating smoke above them.

He hesitates.

Blues and greens flash onto his hair, while soft white from his open device washes over his chin and nose. He wants to tell Maka how wonderful the fireworks are here- but shouldn't.

It hurts.

The next boom that rattles through the crowd lines up inexplicably with his thumping heartbeat.

His brother catches the sudden stillness, and asks, "You wanna take a video for mom?"

It hurts, he thinks, but it's okay.

He shakes his head. "No, I'm sure she can see them from the house." He shuts off his glowing screen and lets the thoughts retreat to his pocket quietly. "More fun to watch, anyway."

Gold crackles with loud cheers and whoops from the ecstatic crowd they stand in. The dinky, store-bought fireworks grow and cover their little sky with boldness and fury.

"It looks like magic," Wes says between loud booms.

"Yeah, it does." When he glances at Wes's bright smile, head tilted up to the ash-raining sky, his eyes are full of color.

He wonders, for a moment, if he were to rise suspended in the air and float among the stars, what colors his exploding heart would leave behind too.


The sun beats on Soul's neck ruthlessly as he stumbles down the stairs, and floats through the open parking lot. His palm connects warmly to the handle of his car, and he heaves the drivers door open to collapse into the stuffy seat- with a loud slam of latches complaining about his rush.

He shoves keys into the ignition, hands on the metal keyring, knuckles pressing to the console as he cannot turn his fist.

He'd done it. He'd really driven himself back to the beige painted walls and dark couches and PhD's perched on shelves near the clock. A black clock, where a tin one used to hang, that counted the hour and a half he'd sat with interrogated stress before someone who used to know him.

He wills his hand to move, to start the engine, but his body refuses.

His fingers slip from the waiting keys, and he slumps back into his seat. The stagnant air around him settles under his nose, carrying the smell of a forgotten car freshener he'd tucked in an open compartment somewhere.

A shaky hand runs through his soft hair.

The lard windshield in front of him holds hits of leaves, orange buildings, white parking lines. Above the blocky shapes and swaying trees, the sky stretches a rich blue.

"It's okay," he voices the words with breathy tremor. His chest tightens. "It's o-okay."

The crying comes slowly today; beginning with thick pain in his throat, redness rising to his cheeks, rapid blinking of his eyes until his nose pinches, the weight tips, and hot tears begin to slip down his face.

His lungs ache with the weight of his sobs; his hands find their way to grip the leather wheel. As he tightens his hold on the bumpy hide in his wringing fingers, his ribs begin to lighten.

Salt drips from his face to his lap. One hiccup of pain turns into release, and then another, and a smile lifts across his features.

"God," He breathes nasally.

He wipes away the wet streaks on his jaw while tears still bead and fall from his eyes.

He opens his phone, and texts Maka :Hey.

A moment later, Maka responds: Hi.

Soul sniffs, wiping at his cheeks repetitively.

My session went really, really well, He texts.

It had hardly been much of anything- surface level summaries, recounting of the years Soul hadn't seen him, careful explanations of why now, after all this time, he's returning in the midst of summer and seeming success.

It had hardly been much of anything, but to Soul, it is everything. He'd relaxed his wired jaw enough to open himself in the way he wanted, with fear and determination of the terrain yet to come. Between fiddling thumbs and jumping glances, he's started talking.

He watches Maka's bubble type for a minute, before her message comes through.

That's pog.

A surprised laugh rushes out of Soul's mouth. He passes his eyes over the text, while laughing again, and lets himself feel the humor and hope with gentle chuckles.

He lowers his phone to rest in the cupholder.

With a grin, he sighs- and starts his car.

Maka is right.

How air flows from his vents.

It sort of is.

They'd been texting daily, but the topics are light, infrequent- formed out of company and presence more than substance. It's an adjustment as strange as life. The calls where he can speak to Maka in the light-hearted, entertaining presence of others are as wonderful as they are frustrating. Soul has stayed true to his word, biting back remarks that could slip them down the wrong path and backpedaling when he can tell the air is growing thick. It's tiring, and some nights he declines invitations to join calls because it weighs on his bones when he least expects it. Yet, even pushed into dark, it's the recollection of Maka's amicable voice that calms him.

Better to have now, than nothing. Better to have not yet, than never.

A week after his first appointment, the urge to type 'I miss you' is rampant and consuming for hours on end. He tries to find justification for it, argues with himself until he's exhausted all defense.

He takes a photo of Blair in a cute outfit Wes had insisted she wear, and sends that instead.

Nights later, he's humming along to music and sorting files on his hard-drive when his phone rattles against the desk.

Despite it being close to three in the morning in Ohio, and Maka having mentioned Discord going to bed nearly two hours prior, she's sent Soul a photo.

It's of her own kitten, large eyes peering into the camera with sweet sparkle against gray fluff.

Fondness blooms in Soul's chest as he reacts to the text with a heart.

In an obscure, unspoken way, he knows the image is Maka's way of saying: I miss you, too.


"That was the most annoying one yet," Blackstar complains through the faint buzz of Soul's headphones.

Soul minimizes the game and gazes over his screens with a soft chuckle. "Why?"

It wasn't their longest play of ranked matches, but the hours they spend sitting and grappling over keys and dealing with opponents are becoming increasingly stressful the more matches they go through.

Muscles taut from sitting for the long duration of their games, Soul links his fingers together and stretches his arms forward, momentarily blocking the glowing monitors from view. He's sunk days into practicing with Blackstar before entering their promos, and it paid off. Between good callouts, and clever kills, it gave them the much needed rank of diamond.

Blackstar's voice falls low. "You know why."

Void of sympathy, Maka asks, "Aw, are you still mad he was above you on the leaderboards the last few games?"

"You're delusional." Blackstar bites back.

"Pfft," Soul fights a smile at the fresh memory of Blackstar complaining and teamkilling Maka in frustration.

"You just need to get better," Soul says airly, quitting their lobby.

"No," Maka inputs. "You just have to stop being lucky."

This time, Soul smiles easily. "Oh, I'd hardly call myself that."

"Shut up," Blackstar says.

"Or- consider this- I'm good at the game."

Maka scoffs, and echoes, "Shut up."

Soul shifts in his chair, watching the starting screen of Valorant in blur before him. He'd been nervous, before- but with traces of guilt and worry that are different than usually. It's his and Maka's first attempt to ease back into participating in each others gaming sessions, which proved seamless.

"I'm gonna need to watch that last match back." Blackstar yawns. "Find out what I was diong wrong that time."

"Really?" Soul says.

"C'mon, I have to see how many times I was close to winning those rounds."

"You really weren't," He explains clearly. "Maka was probably the closest. I'll have to see that clip when I find it." he takes a sip from his water bottle, and mumbles against it. "It was pretty cool."

"How nice of you to say that, Soul," Maka says immediately. She sounds smug.

Soul swirls the water in the plastic container. "We still lost."

"I never lose."

He smiles, and considers the minimized playback tab on the screen. "I could pull up the proof right now of you dying the second you rounded that same corner over and over again,"

"Drag her ass," Blackstar says.

"How about you share all the times Blackstar flunked the planting over and over,"

Quickly, Blackstar defends, "Don't drag me."

"Don't drag me," Maka mimics, voice slipping into amusement. "What, you can't take it?"

"I'm gonna knock you out,"

Soul rubs his eyes tiredly. "Chill, you guys."

Maka ignores him. "Oh, you're so big and tough, are you?"

"Maka," Soul tries.

"I could step on you, Maka."

Soul tips his head back. "Blackstar-"

"What did I ever do to you?"

"Oh, man." Blackstar says. "You want a list?"

"Please," Soul interjects with a half-whine. "You guys have been so bitchy today. I can't handle one more minute of this."

Maka giggles quietly as Blackstar mutters, "Sorry dad."

After a moment, Maka says, "He started it."

Soul's hands open in the empty air as a gesture of disbelief.

"You know what, Maka?" Blackstar retaliates quickly. "The second I see you in person, I'm gonna kill you. I've just decided. How about that?"

"Oh no," Maka drawls sarcastically. "Guess I won't go to Nevada after all."

Soul's eyes snap to the open Discord window as he sharply says. "Hey."

They descend into cutting silence.

Any quips or words of wit die on their tongues, now unplaceable in the strained hum of their call.

Soul shakes his head, and sits up. He should take himself away before the low feelings of hurt grip onto anything meaningful.

"I think I'm just gonna hop off," He says finally. He starts closing tabs. "Thanks for today, I had fun with the matches. I'll let you know if I want to play again later."

"Soul," Maka begins. "I didn't mean it like that-"

"Don't worry about it, Maka." If it's not mine to feel, then why feel it. "Bye."

"No, no, no, dude," Blackstar rushes., "Seriously, hold on-"

"Star, you don't have to-" He starts to reply with tinged irritability until Maka's voice interrupts him.

"I'm going," Maka says firmly. "I'm going to visit you."

The sound of her words rings between Soul's ears. In the stunned pause that follows, Soul stares at his computer.

What?

"Or I- I want to," Maka continues, slower. "I've been thinking about it alot, and talking to Blackstar about it a lot, and I want to go. I am going- if you still…"

Soul feels the tender ache in his chests begin to grow, and he finds himself pinching his features together with careful confusion. He tries to curb any traces of reckless optimism.

What the fuck?

"Are… are you sure?" Soul questions. "It hasn't been that long since we talked about this last."

A little under a month, or so.

"I know," Maka answers.

Could that really be enough time?

Soul's heart begins to hum. The hope, jumpy and golden, skitters in him.

"It's two whole weeks, Maka." He presses softly. "Not like a call we can leave. You'll be here for a while."

"I promise you," Maka says, "I'm aware of that."

"We've beat this thing to death from every angle, Soul." Blackstar offers. "Kind of annoying, really."

He feels a flicker of affection at that, picturing them hours deep in their secretive calls, debating to the point of exhaustion. Knowing Maka, Soul wouldn't be surprised if a 'pros and cons' document was involved, as well.

"This is what I want." Maka assures. "If you still want me to see you."

Soul huffs in surprise. "Of course I do."

His pulse drums erratically beneath the light fabric of his t-shirt. Of course I do, of course I do.

"Then good," Maka says.

Soul presses his lips together, then lets himself smile, then cannot stop. His mind floods with excitement, possibilities, plane tickets and rainy conversations from weeks ago.

His grin is insufferable. "Good."

"Cool," Blackstar chimes.

"Cool," Maka repeats, and Soul can hear with fondness that they're all on the verge of happy laughter.

It's Blackstar who breaks first, his light giggle carrying through the call like white foam washing up on a sandy shore- then seconds later, the waves crash with Soul's wheezing and Maka's voice.

"This isn't funny," She says, but it's clear she's enjoying it too, which only makes them delve deeper into meaningless cackles.

Soul can't wait to see it in person- Blackstars grin, Maka's eye rolls, their shared joy and irritation and clamor. And yet he catches a subtle hitch in Maka's breath as their poorly timed fit subsides, and has to clear his throat. It won't be pure sunshine. He knows that, he's learning that.

After they've calmed enough, Soul slips back into serious patience. "I'm really happy about this, but… you still have a little while to think about it. There's no rush."

"Thanks," Maka says simply.

Soul smiles again.

"Well," Blackstar muses, "You have like, five weeks."

Soul frowns. "Five?"

"Yep."

Maka hums with disinterest in the background.

"That sounds wrong." Soul says.

Blackstar shuffles in his chair at the end of his mic. "No it's not."

"Yeah it is." Soul narrows his eyes at his computer, pulling up a minimized calendar. "It's six weeks."

With faint annoyance, Maka mutter, "Five, six, it doesn't make a difference-"

"No it's not, Soul," Blackstar interjects, blatantly ignoring Maka's complaints. "We fly out the first week of September which is five weeks from now-"

"The second," Soul spits, then sits up sharply as his eyes widen. "Wait, Blackstar-"

"It doesn't matter because I'm gonna go either way," Maka says sternly. "Can you guys just shut up?"

Soul blinks in the brief silence that follows.

"Hold on, hold on Maka," He voices slowly, praying that he isn't right. "Blackstar, pull up your ticket."

"Ugh, don't wanna. Too much work-"

"Dude," Soul interrupts with audible strain. "Do it. Right now."

"Okay, jeez." He hears Blackstar click around for a few, tense seconds. "Why?"

Soul clenches his jaw. "The date on it- what are the weeks?"

"The first and second week of September," Blackstar reads. "Like I said earlier."

A brief silence of disbelief cuts through their conversation, until Maka says. "Oh my god."

Soul pinches the bridge of his nose in agreement. "Oh my god."

"What?" Blackstar asks, transparently lost.

"Maka," Soul says helplessly.

"Guys, what happened?"

A shocked exhale leaves Maka's mouth. "You bought your tickets a week early, dumbass. We said the second and third week. Not the first and second."

Soul begins to slide down his chair in disappointment.

"No you didn't," Blackstar says. "You're lying." They can't muster the strength to disprove his anxious claims. "Guys?"

"We sent you the links." Soul says, near-whine.

"You sent me, like, a hundred. And you made me do it so fast, I was-"

"It's fine, Blackstar." Soul wipes his face to ease the tension from his cheeks. "Let me pay for these, and you can buy new ones for the right weeks this time."

He hears no response.

He frowns. "Blackstar?"

"Um," Blackstar says, his voice pitching awkwardly. "No?"

Bluntly, Maka utters, "What?"

Blackstar exhales. "I have to be home by the fifteenth. I can't stay any longer than that."

"Blackstar," Soul starts, but is quickly cut off by unexpected dismissal.

"No, man," Blackstar says. "No. I get that this is all… weird and stuff, but I told you I had plans way before this, and I can't keep babysitting you two."

Soul's head lolls to the side, his headphones bumping his shoulder in deep disappointment- for the way he treats his closest friends, and for Blackstar's inept struggle with following directions.

"You can't reschedule," Soul says finally.

Blackstar's voice is firm. "I can't. I really can't."

Soul recognizes the tone, the way his phrases end with a subtle dip that means: Don't push, don't ask. No more.

He curses.

"I'd only see you for a week, then," Maka says to Blackstar, and the hesitance in her words is enough to drive another stake into Soul's chest.

Blackstar doesn't respond. Their subtle panic accumulated as seconds passed.

Soul straightens up. "Okay, well- well Maka, do you think you could change your tickets?"

"To get there earlier?" He can almost picture from Maka's voice the contemplative frown that settles across her features. "You know I can't, Soul. We already went over this when we bought them."

Through his teeth, he says, "Remind me."

"My…. my mom's birthday is that week," Maka explains carefully, as though her words can cut Soul deep. "And we have family coming to town. Remember?"

His heart sinks low into his gut, while he tries to grab the fraying threads before the trip is unwoven before them. Maka is unable to arrive earlier; Blackstar is unable to arrive later. He'll be rooted, for three weeks, in a September of his own making.

"Your mom's a Virgo?"

"...What the fuck, Blackstar?"

Soul ignores them. "So that," he starts slowly, "That'd be a week of me and Blackstar. Then…"

"A week of all three of us," Blackstar assisted.

"And a week of just you and me," Maka finishes quietly.

Soul's eyes fall to his desk with dread.

Maka had agreed to visit, the possibility so close Soul could feel it looming over him. They'd made progress, and it was working until they'd fallen out of sync, yet again.

"It's okay, Maka," Soul says defeatedly. "I get it. It's not what you signed up for. We can cancel it and I'll refund your money, you don't have to-"

Blackstar quickly cuts him off, "No, no, come on, just a week won't be-"

"You need to stop talking-"

"Stop it. Both of you," Maka orders, and is greeted with wanted silence. "It's been a really, really long day. And this… this has not helped with that." She huffs. "But I can't say I'm surprised."

Soul stares at the days marked on his calendar as ':))))'- and frowns.

"For now," Maka says, "I still want to go. That's what my gut is telling me, and I've been trying to listen to it more, lately. The last thing I want to do is overcommit to something and end up disappointing you guys, so…. How I feel about this might change." She pauses carefully. "Is that okay?"

Unexpected warmth rushes to fill Soul's chest. Even the slightest change of seeing Maka eases his heartache with care. He breathes out. "Yes,"

"That's perfectly okay with me," Blackstar says, voice quieting. "And I'm sorry."

"It's," Maka mutters, "okay, Blackstar."

"I didn't mean to," He assures.

Soul sighs. "We know."

After a moment, he asks, "Am I grounded?"

Maka laughs sharply.

"I hate you," Soul says with a smile, because there could never be a plane of existence in which it would be true.

"No CS:GO for a month," Maka jokes with faux authority.

Blackstar huffs, "Alright. Easy."

"Two months," Soul levies.

"I don't even play that much," Blackstar says.

"We know," Maka inputs quickly. "That's why you're trash."

"Play me right now, bitch," Blackstar challenges, and the insinuation immediately presses a faint headache to Soul's temples.

"Can we please not do this again," He asks feebly.

To his surprise, Maka hums. "Actually, that sounds kind of fun."

An incredulous smile leaps across his features, alerted by the interest he'd caught wind of. "What?"

"Just for a bit," Maka explains lightly.

"Bet," Blackstar says, already clicking around with his mouse for what Soul assumes is to boot the game up.

"Where did that come from?" Soul questions unsuccessful in stamping the delight at discovering a new aspect of Maka.

Maka laughs. "Dunno. Guess I'm still bitter from losing earlier."

"Ah," Soul says. "Just like how I'm tired of winning."

"Yeah, yeah." Blackstar's typing rumbles through the call. "We'll see about that."

Soul scoots closer to his desk defensively. "I'm not gonna play."

"Yes you are," Maka says easily.

"Come on," Blackstar encourages. "Let's bully some kids."

Begrudgingly, Soul joins them. They sink into games and pass words that have no significance beyond surface level quips, and brief shouts. Slipping into their zone of comfort, Soul keeps himself incredibly mindful of what drops from his lips and how he navigates through the veiled tension still nestled between them all. In the small moments of Blackstar and Maka's bickering, light mocking that leads to wheezes ripping from Soul's lungs- he catches a glimpse of their future. It is not full, nor ruined, but balanced somewhere in between.

Soul knows he is hurting. He knows it will persist, for weeks and nights, until he's learned to truly be content in not having what he wants the most. As he listens to Maka's bright laughter, and smiles- he knows he's willing to go through it all over again.

The three grew tired and disconnected from gaming after unanimously deciding they'd hassled each other enough, for today. Blackstar gives them his last words of apologies and sincere gratitude, before leaving Soul and Maka to relax into the absence of his loud voice.

"God," Maka says after they're alone in the call. "That was a lot."

Soul hums in agreement. "That was." He falls quiet with all the words he'd love to say, and exhales the impulsivity off his tongue. "Have a good night, Maka." He murmurs instead, "I'll talk to you sometime soon, okay?"

"Yeah," Maka says. "Talk to you soon."

Soul drags his cursor to hover over the end call button, preparing himself for the usual conflict of emotions that follows once their conversation dies completely.

"Well- one more thing, and then I'll say goodbye." Maka's voice quickly stops him from disconnecting.

The light from his monitor glows soft blue in the silence. Tendons in his knuckles still over the sleek mouse and keys; he can feel where the edge of the desk presses into the skin of his wrists.

They haven't lingered in each others uninterrupted presence, spare a few sentences here and there, since June.

Timidly, Soul asks, "What is it?"

"If I do come and visit you," Maka says, "that means we'd be on our own for a bit, after Blackstar leaves."

"It would," Soul's tone is slow. Patient. Hoping.

Maka pauses, then struggles to ask, "Would that… that be weird, even if I'm still…"

"Not ready?" Soul finishes softly.

"Yeah."

His heart aches, as he thinks of the millions of words that could fall from his lips and fracture this moment. Maka's voice is gentle, and close- but it's not tearing Soul apart like it used to.

"It wouldn't be," He answers with sincerity. "I'm not going to expect something from you, or do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

The chance to see her smile, in person. To admire her from afar. To let her see the life he's built in Nevada, the wooden floors he's paced on. Maka could live here forever, and Soul is slowly learning what it takes to keep her.

"You think it'd be okay?" Maka questions further, her anxiousness present in every careful syllable.

Soul collects as much comfort and honesty as he can in the warmth of his throat. "I do."

Maka lets out a short breath.

Soul reclines in his seat, and tilts his head back to watch the lazy motions of his fan glide through the air with no resistance. He waits attentively for Maka to approach him again.

"This I think… I think I would like to see you and Blackstar." Maka says. "I think it'd be stupid to not take that oppertunity."

Soul's lips part as a gentle wisp of breath escapes him. The clear, decisive lilt to Maka's words solidifies in his cautious temple of hope. He could build high cities and gold kingdoms to hear Maka never speak with hesitancy again.

He calms his drumming heart, and says, "It's a good thing you're not stupid."

Maka laughs, quietly. The privacy feels sweet, and forgiving, like summer rain. "I guess so."

Their last, long silence sounds like the faint crackling of embers buried in ashy soil, after the flames have been snuffed out. The ruin is evident in the charred pieces they've left behind. It stings, and simmers, and all SOul can do is trace his eyes over the wooden slats circling in suspension above him.

Yet inklings of a rebirth slowly bloom in the quiet. Something made of feather stirs in the remains, some type of hope that will lift them.

"I'll see you in six weeks," Maka says finally.

Soul readies himself to disconnect, and smiles. "I'll see you then."