Happy holidays, friends! Here's a little Christmas piece that's been sitting in my drafts for awhile! Thank you soooo much to aer, professor maka and justpocketchange on discord for reading over this bad boy and for making this such a fun lil piece to write and edit. Hope you're all staying warm and safe out there, and I hope you enjoy! :)
She wants to kiss him, but she doesn't know how.
Maka fiddles with the clasp on her necklace, staring down at it with one eye closed as she tries to fit the loop through. It's Christmas Eve, they're running late for the party, and even though she should be thinking about a million other things, she's thinking about this.
It's not that she doesn't know how to kiss. Maka's a great kisser. Probably. She's good at most things that she sets her mind to, so why should kissing be any different?
It's perfectly normal to not have kissed anyone by twenty-three. She knows this, in theory, even though she knows that Papa had probably kissed half of Death City by twenty-three.
Okay, well. It's not like she's using him as a role model for romance. The problem is that Soul isn't just anyone, which makes things a lot more complicated.
This is the thought that has been weaseling its way into Maka's psyche for the past six months.
Like the slow drip of coffee into the pot, it's something that has taken time, that trickles down into her heart, that burns a hole in her chest if she takes in too much at once. This is the prickly, annoying, lazy human that she's cohabited with since her early teens. For this reason, she's seen too much, too many sides of him for there to be any mystery left. He's not intriguing, or mysterious, or dashing, or least of all, seductive. She's walked in on him picking his nose with a toilet paper-crafted Q-tip in the bathroom too many times for there to be any surprises left.
But since when has she been after any of those things? Since when has she wanted someone who intrigues her but leaves her behind in a time of need? Those are Papa's genes, that's Papa's type, not hers. She can sweep herself off her own feet, thank you very much. Actually, she can sweep anyone's feet out from under them, if she has her weapon between her hands.
She knows they can do anything together. But when it comes to doing this, she's stumped.
It's natural, isn't it? That being this close to someone would only make you want to be closer? There must be something going on, scientifically. Molecularly. She'd believe that, if she didn't see the couple that actually defies all natural logic - comprised of one blue-haired idiot and one kind, demure human with infinite patience - walking arm-and-arm in the grocery store, picking out baking ingredients, making eyes at each other as they sail on the calm, inviting waters of their honeymoon phase.
The night Tsubaki and Black*Star had told everyone - Christmas Eve, the year prior - had been received with varying levels of surprise. While Maka had been actually very surprised by it - mostly because anyone finding Black*Star attractive was a truly baffling concept - Soul hadn't said much. Some facets of his personality have not changed in ten years, and much like his fourteen-year-old self would have done, he had just shrugged and said, "that's cool." Since he does that in basically every situation, neutral or otherwise, it's impossible for her to gauge exactly how he feels about it.
And she'd really like to know how he feels about it.
"I had to do something," Tsubaki had told her that night, glowing as brightly as the tree, cups of cocoa clutched between their hands. "He was never going to do it."
"I'm so surprised," Maka says. "Honestly. Since when has Black*Star not gone after something with his entire being? He's normally so gung-ho about everything."
The cocoa sends steam cascading upwards as Tsubaki sips it, considering. "I think…" She looks at the tree, trying to put the words together. "I think these things are different. This isn't a monster to fight. It's not straightforward. And, in Black*Star's case, I don't think he's necessarily so in tune with his emotional side."
"But we are talking about Black*Star's case."
"We are," Tsubaki says, but there's a twinkle in her eye that Maka doesn't miss. "I'm just saying… sometimes the boys need a little push. They may have grown up, but sometimes I don't think they can grow out of being dense."
It's been a year since that conversation. She hates that Tsubaki had known, had called it before she did.
Normally, this sort of thing doesn't bother her. Normally, Maka is the master of keeping her emotions carefully tucked away for the sake of their partnership. But she's no longer naive enough to pretend it's only a business relationship. They rely on each other. They always have.
Lately, it's been harder to navigate where the boundary is. Physical touch has always been so natural for them, part of the way they interact on the daily. It's almost magnetic; when things get tough, their hands find one another like a compass pointing north. As they'd gotten older, she'd started going to him more and more often for physical comfort - to pull his arms around her when she needed to cry, like an automatic release on the dam that holds back her tears.
It feels dangerous to admit, but she... loves touching him. It's fun to stick her freezing hands to his back so that he hisses, her smile buried deep into his shoulder. She likes the way they fall asleep all over each other on the couch, even if she ends up with his foot in her face half the time, bruises under his toenails and all.
And she knows that he's the same; he's the one who knows her ticklish spots, who puts his arm behind her on the couch when they spend hours watching TV. It rarely shows on his face when he's upset, but on those rare occasions, he'll be sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, and when she comes into the room, he reaches for her hand like she's the only thing in the world to hold on to.
They're not delicate; they're not afraid of each other. But more and more frequently, Maka finds herself getting nervous, and she hasn't been nervous around him in so many moons that it's confusing.
And now it's Christmas Eve again, and although things are definitely changing in some regard, there are so many things that have not changed at all.
"Soul, we're gonna be late!"
As always, Maka is the one dragging him out the door. Normally that is somewhat figurative, but tonight it's about to get very literal if he doesn't get his stupid, lazy ass downstairs in the next thirty seconds, which is exactly what she says to him as she stomps down the hallway.
"I know you hate these parties," she adds, "but it's just going to be the normal group, so I need you to please put this coat on-" She wrenches open the door to the coat closet, about to grab the coat, but it's only then that she realizes she hasn't put on her shoes. She doesn't want to see the unimpressed look on his face if she's nagging him without being 100 percent ready to get out the door herself, so she stoops down to slide her foot into a boot, edging into a corner of the closet and leaning against the coats to balance when the closet door opens further.
"Yeah, okay!" Soul yells, and he steps into the closet as well to yank the jacket off the hanger. "And where the hell did you-"
Before he can finish, the closet door begins to swing shut, and she lunges forward to stop it. "Waitwaitwaitwait it's locked from the-"
And both of them, Death City's finest meister-weapon pair, creator and titleholder of the coveted role of Death's Personal Weapon, watch in horror as the door, with a little click, traps them both in its mothball-ridden clutches. They're plunged into darkness, Soul halfway into his winter coat and Maka with one boot unzipped, straddling the vacuum cleaner.
"...outside," she says unhelpfully, glaring down at the floor. Slowly, dramatically, she kicks off her boot and leans against the wall, the back of her head knocking against the cedar.
He wants to kiss her, but it's not about what he wants.
Christmas is coming, and with it comes a whole slew of obligations that he hates, all of this fanfare that seems fake and capitalist, and Maka falls for all of it - the parties, the big dinners, the decorations. And since Christmas is supposed to be a day for families, and neither of them enjoy speaking to theirs much, he ends up getting roped in to every activity, every impulse buy, every impromptu carol singalong. It's like they're back in school, and Maka's giving him Christmas-themed busy work.
Honestly, he's not much of a companion when it comes to these things - he's surly at best and flat-out antagonistic at worst when it comes to Christmas - so he's not sure why she wants to keep him around for all of it.
He'd said this to Blair once, during one of his more grumpy Christmas episodes. She'd regarded him with that very particular brand of feline judgement, and said:
"Because, silly. You are her family."
He'd stopped complaining after that, a little.
Ambivalent as he is about Christmas, there's one thing he actually does like about this time of year, guilty as it makes him feel: during the holidays, Maka is more… snuggly than usual.
She must not realize, he thinks. Or care. Maybe swinging him around all the time has just turned him into an overgrown beanbag in her eyes. Regardless, the month of December makes her extra content to sneak cold hands under his hoodie, or fall asleep against him on the couch, lips pressing warm against his throat.
It always happens at Christmas, but for the past year, something has changed. It feels like it's been nonstop, like they're constantly toeing this strange border, testing out what kind of touch is too intimate. They've always been touch-oriented, but this year, there have been little moments where it's started to feel like more.
It's a thought that makes his heart rate spike dangerously as he stares at the closet door.
"...What." He reaches out to wiggle the doorknob with a black-gloved hand. It jiggles, but doesn't turn all the way. He looks down at Maka's silhouette with a bewildered expression. "Why would you lock it from the outside?"
She's cornered, sunk in on herself against the wall, but she draws her shoulders back to meet his eyes. "I always lock it so that Blair doesn't scratch up the coats."
"What?!" He can't believe what he's hearing, and he takes his glove off and jiggles the door again in exasperation. "But she can turn into a person, Maka! She can open the door herself!"
"Well, yeah," Maka says. She's flustered, now, cheeks reddening in a mix of anger and embarrassment. "But she never thinks about doing it when she's a person! It's a cat-specific behavior, okay?" At his stunned silence, she elaborates. "Look, I can't explain how her mind works, I just know that when I come home sometimes, she's in cat form and stuck on one of our coats, and when I come home and I've locked it, she isn't! What am I supposed to do about that?"
As if summoned, four little cat paws appear in the slit of light under the door, only to transform into two kitten heels.
"Blair!" Maka says, and she sounds relieved, which... kind of bothers him, for some reason. "Hey, can you open the-
"Nope!" Blair says, way too cheerfully, voice muffled through the wood. "I can hear you both in there. You're grumpy, and I won't have my kittens fighting at Christmas. I'm going to the party, and you two can just sit in there until you've worked out whatever's going on."
Maka finally reaches up to turn on the light, and they both stare at each other in the light of the one hanging bulb in the center of the room.
"Blair- you better not walk out that door!" Maka says, voice rising dangerously, and Soul recognizes that his need to exit this closet is about to become very dire.
"I swear, you stupid cat, come back here," Soul yells, pounding on the door. "I may not want to go to that stupid party, but I sure as hell don't wanna be stuck in here with Wrath personified, so come back and let us-"
The front door clicks shut, and they both listen as Blair's heels echo down the apartment steps. When the outer door to the apartment complex slams, the silence is deafening, and they stare at each other in disbelief, their earlier rage settling into a more muted smolder.
"This is your fault," Maka says, crossing her arms and leaning against the vacuum cleaner, as if trying to put as much distance between them as possible.
Okay, it's not really Soul's fault, and Maka knows that she's going to have to say so.
"My fault?!" he says, tugging his coat off in a huff and putting it back on the hanger. It immediately tumbles to the floor, because it's a winter coat, and if you don't zip it up, which she's only told him six thousand times by now, it just falls right off again.
They both look down at the coat and he blanches, stuffing it back on the hanger and zipping it up. He leans against the other side of the closet, the one without coats, probably with the same motivations that she has - putting as much distance between one another as physically possible. They're silent for another moment, before he ventures out with a slightly calmer, "Why is this my fault?"
"Ugh... it's not," she says, conceding. "I'm just… I'm just mad. It's Christmas, and you hate Christmas," she says, staring at the floor. "And you're always putting up a fight, and you never wanna do anything, and I can't get you to like it."
He lets out a sigh, leaning against the wall. "Yeah. I don't like it, okay? It's commercial and it's stupid and big business is just trying to get you to spend-"
"But it doesn't have to be about that," she says, wringing her hands. She wants to make him understand. "If you don't wanna buy any presents this year, that's fine. We don't have to go to the mall, or do any of the caroling tours, or go to the market and have mulled wine. Okay? We can do a Christmas without cost, or something."
She can tell the idea is appealing to him, because it opens him up. His fighting stance unravels, head returning to its normal slouchy posture, hands finding their default position in the pockets of his jeans.
"I don't need to have Christmas with any of those things," she says. "I just want Christmas with…"
"Your family," he says, and now they've changed roles - he's staring at his shoes, and she's the one looking at him, aghast.
"Yeah," she says. "That's what I want."
"And now we're missing the party." His head hits the wall, and he directs his gaze to the sleeve of one of the coats, fiddling with it. "Stupid Blair."
She smiles a little.
"It's just… not that great, sometimes," Soul continues. "I don't really like that we have to see our families. Our actual families, I mean."
"But that's what I love about it, too," she says. "We might have to suffer through Christmas with our families, but we get to do all of those things with our other family, too. Patty and Liz, and Black*Star and Tsubaki, and Blair, and everyone else."
"But I'm still like, obligated to see my parents," he explains. "I just wish there wasn't something forcing me to go back every year."
"Do… you want me to come with you, this year?" she asks, and his face freezes. "If you don't, it's okay!" she adds hurriedly.
His wavelength is frozen also, which only happens when he's thinking of something particularly intense - something he's trying to shield from her.
"Yeah," he says after a moment. "I think that'd be… nice."
She smiles. "So… you'll try to be a good sport?" she asks. "About Christmas?"
He nods, pulling his head up to look her in the eyes, a little grin toying at the sides of his face as he asks, "...You really don't want any presents?"
She grimaces at him, but there's a small smile on her face too, now. "I mean, presents don't have to be bought."
There's another change in his wavelength as she says this, a strange hesitation that Soul covers up as soon as it happens.
"...What?" she says.
"Nope, nothing," he says, but he's up in his head now, and she can feel him frantically putting up the veil in his mind. "Don't worry about it."
There's something about the way he's holding himself that makes her clam up, too, both of them looking down at their toes.
"There's something else I... kinda wanted to talk to you about," he says. "I don't really like talking about stuff like this, but I was curious."
And he's looking so bashful, so open-hearted at that moment, that the thought returns. She wants to kiss him, but they're in a closet, and surely this is not the most romantic of locales, crammed together amongst the mothballs and dryer sheets. The space is miniscule, a glaring reminder of the fact that they're not touching right now.
Maka pushes the thought down and puts her walls up instead. She will keep them as fortified as she needs to.
"What is it?" she asks.
"I'm just… wondering," he says, "about how it's been lately, with us."
She cocks her head to the side. "What do you mean?"
Another little sigh escapes him. "Listen, I don't know if this is weird to mention, or whatever. If it is, just tell me, and I'll never say anything about it again."
She nods, extremely wary at this point, but there's also a kernel of hope, burning under the surface.
"Would you rather we didn't... touch as much?" he says, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets.
A wave of energy literally moves through her body at this question, heat rising up to warm her face. "... What?"
"Wait," he says, because he's always been able to read her, and he's watching her body language with a furrowed brow. "No, wait. Stop." He reaches instinctually, hands moving to graze her wrists.
"Hold on," she says, pulling her hands slowly out of his grasp. "Let's just… talk about it without touching, okay?"
His eyebrows knit together again but he obliges, because of course he does; he's always going to listen to her when it comes to things like this. Once they are settled comfortably against the walls of the closet again, Maka looks up at him through her bangs.
"Why did you ask me that?" she asks. "Do you think we shouldn't..."
"Me?" he says, surprised. "Oh. No. This isn't about me at all."
"You don't mind the amount we touch?" These are things she thought she already knew, but now that he's brought it up, she's unsure, questioning the past ten years of physical contact-
"Hey." His hands are back in his pockets, but he looks taller than before, back almost straight against the wood panelling. "You're doing it again."
"What?" she asks.
"You're overthinking," he says, pointing to his head and tapping at it with a finger. "Keeping something from me. I can hear it."
So are you, she wants to say. "I… we're not talking about me," she says, sidestepping. "I want you to explain."
"How about I explain, and then you explain," he says, levelling her with that stare she's so used to - careful, but unaccepting of bullshit. She won't be able to wriggle out of this conversation, especially since they are destined to be two feet apart from each other for the foreseeable future.
"...Fine," she says. Because she has been worried about this, and it's honestly kind of a relief to talk about. "Go ahead."
"Look. I'm great with the way things are. Whatever you want is what I want," he says simply, shoulders pulling up into a little shrug. "But I've just noticed you hesitating, sometimes. Like maybe you'd rather not. So if you wanna pull back on it, we can make that happen. If less is what you want, it's what I want."
The words want to come tumbling out of her mouth, and she barely tries to stop them, because she can talk to him about anything, right? Even… even the thing she's the most afraid to say.
She finds herself hoping for a Christmas miracle.
"And what if… more is what I want?"
Soul raises his eyes up to hers in slow motion, something flowing along his wavelength that morphs from surprise to disbelief to… something warmer. Something that feels like hope, a little bit. More? she hears him think, before he tamps down on it again, eyes glittering with an emotion that he's no longer letting her hear.
His face is totally impassive, because he's always so careful, so guarded, handling her with kid gloves. "I guess... that depends," he says.
Irritation trickles down her wavelength, and for some reason, it has him smirking.
"On what?" she says, the warmth from before still lighting her face, simmering around her eyes.
"On what you do next," he says simply, standing up a little straighter, leveling her with a stare.
There's a challenge there, charged along his wavelength like a dare, flitting just out of her grasp. "Like I said," he murmurs. "Whatever you want... is what I want."
This time, the meaning rings clear, and now she's the one tamping down on something, not daring to believe what he's telling her.
"What are you saying?" Her hands are on her hips now - she's ready to go back into combat mode, and it makes him smirk even more.
"I'm saying… that if there's something you want you should take it."
He's confident. He's figured her out.
"You're challenging me," she observes.
"Mhm," he affirms. "It's a good way to get you to stop thinking."
"Says the most chronic overthinker I know," Maka retorts, and before she can think, she's taken a step towards him, directly underneath the light.
"You don't plan on meeting me halfway with this, do you?" she asks, and they're still not touching, inches apart in their own coat closet, the energy crackling, spiraling around the both of them.
He hums a little sound that confirms the negative. "Not this time," he adds, and that soft little teasing tone is almost unbearable with his face this close. "Maka Albarn doesn't stop until she gets what she wants, right? So let's see what you want."
He's lifting the invisible barrier they've constructed, an open invitation. So she leans up, hands sliding up to his collar, and takes what she wants.
He can't believe they'd waited ten years to do this.
For all of the abuse his collar is taking, the kiss itself is tentative, slow. She's leaning into him, his back just barely brushing the wall behind him. Her lips are as warm and soft as he'd imagined, and what she's thinking makes it even better - all trust and openness and finally, and he gives it back to her in kind.
Does she know how long he's wanted this? He lets down his guard, letting her share in the full extent of what he's feeling. Because he's always been there. Quietly sitting in the shadows, just in case. There's so much to explain, so much that he can't say aloud in a way that sounds cool, so he lets his soul say it instead.
"Why didn't you say something before?" she gasps as she breaks away. Her fists clench against his chest, wrestling with the confession that's dancing around her.
His eyes are closed, the most serene smile on his face. "Why didn't you?" he says.
Surprise stutters its way down the link. "I… I don't know," she says. He can hear her racking her brain, like she's sifting through the tissue paper on a Christmas gift. "Lots of reasons."
"Any you wanna talk about right now?" His eyes slide open just in time to watch her eyes fall to his lips. Something in his stomach twists, and the feeling ripples between the two of them like a wave.
"Not really," she murmurs, and he keeps his eyes open as she moves back up to meet him, their lips pressing together. He wants to watch her do this a thousand times.
He loses track of time; his life is now measured only in the press of Maka's fingers into his sides, in the sweeps of his thumb against her cheeks. She reaches for his hands, leading them to her hips without breaking the kiss, and a little mental chuckle escapes him, cascading down the link.
What? she thinks, irritated, freezing against him.
So bossy, he returns, and she whacks at his chest with a fist, though there's no real force behind it.
The force comes about two seconds later, when she pushes into him, his back suddenly flat against the wall, and pulls his bottom lip between the two of hers.
He never wants to leave this closet.
It's too much, the way their wavelengths spiral together, they way they come alight. Without his permission, Soul's hands leave Maka's sides, sliding up into her hair, and they breathe in together, unsteady.
"Wait a second?" he asks aloud, their foreheads pressed together, eyes still closed.
A beat passes, and she lets out a shaky breath.
"Yeah," she agrees, but as soon as her eyes meet his, something behind them sparks, and they both break into grins.
"...Nope, changed my mind," she says, already leaning up again.
"Ready when you are," he murmurs against her lips, and another little chuckle goes unheard against their third kiss.
Slow and tentative is no longer the way he would characterize anything that's currently going on. Maka's arms are thrown around his neck, every inch of her pressed flush against him, the curious press of a tongue against his lips-
Through the radio static in his brain, he hears a door slam.
"Kittens! I'm back! They said I had to come back and get you because-"
It all happens incredibly fast. The lock clicks and the door slides open, revealing Blair, whose expression flashes from playful to shocked to absolutely thrilled in record time.
Soul's eyes flash down to Maka and then back up to Blair, who is looking very much like she'd like to say something as the two of them untangle. She does manage to restrain herself - more likely because of how mortified Maka looks than because of Soul's death glare.
After Maka steps out and starts down the hallway, Blair meets his eye, and all the impartiality she had respectfully displayed for Maka has been replaced with the most smug expression Soul has ever seen.
He clears his throat and turns off the light.
They make it halfway to the party before the other shoe drops.
"Ahhh, I'm so excited!" Blair squeals suddenly, tugging them both into her chest. "Bu-tan's been waiting for this for so long!~"
"Ugh, Blair," Soul groans, but his end of the link, still blown wide open, tells another story - Maka can tell that there's no real anger there. He's still walking on air. They both are.
"This is the best Christmas ever!" Blair declares to the sky, and Maka decides that she agrees.
They make it to the party, and they don't tell anyone. They will, soon. But for tonight, they'll keep it to themselves.
"Soul seems like he's enjoying Christmas a bit more this year," Tsubaki says to Maka, halfway through the evening.
Maka meets his eyes from across the room, amusement tinkling between them like a bell.
"Yeah," Maka says, cheeks suddenly rosy. "I think it's growing on him."