A week later, his brother happens.

"Nice makeout photos, dorkwich."

This is the absolute worst thing to hear when he's in the zone, dancing the fine line between maximum damage per second and aggroing a gigantic raid boss off ReaperMan.

Half a foot away from the microphone, Wes loudly slurps the airy remainders of his doubleshot on ice. Soul quietly panics. Just as phase two of the boss fight begins, Death barks, "Eater, stop drinking like a slob."

"Sorry, Mom," he quips back half-heartedly before covering his mic with his free hand and awkwardly navigating his character to his assigned spot with only his mouse. To his brother, gritting through clenched teeth, he says, "Asshole. What are you talking about," as if he doesn't have every clue. Soul's eyes are trained to the screen, but it's not like he needs to look to know Wes is wearing the grin that has plagued him for his entire life.

In one-to-one voice chat, Reaper in his ear like her mouth is touching him: "You okay over there?"

Heat shoots down his spine. Ever since the con, she's been using a microphone during raids, though she mostly only talks to him on private binds, which is equally the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him. He is now at maximum multitasking – if any more distracting bullshit occurs after this moment in time, he is going to be fucked proper.

Soul lifts his hand off the mic for half a second to shoot back, "M'fine," before covering it again. Of course she'd notice – she notices any character in her field of vision running around like a moron.

His brother leans on his desk like it's a photoshoot prop designed to hold his ass. "I dunno who the pretty princess was, but if I were her father, you'd be six feet in the ground before the week was out."

Soul shrugs one side of his headset off an ear with a shoulder, glaring at his brother. "How the shit did you find a bunch of nerd-con pics taken by Nintendotakus?"

"They're viral, guy. There are gifsets."

Left ear, Death, full-on bitch. "Eater, stay out of the fire."

"FUCKIN'–" Soul blurts, mousing wildly to safety.

"Some of those shots're positively filthy, little brother. I'm proud," says Wes, shaking ice into his mouth and crunching loudly in the exact way Mother always hates.

"Just– not now, you stupid crotch."

ShadowStag this time, smooth and deadly: "I'm not wasting a battle res on you, Eater. Move."

Soul growls angrily, taking his hand off the mic and returning it to the keyboard in an attempt to avoid the many possible ways of dying during phase two of his life sucking this much. "I'm going, I'm going," he gripes.

Seizing the opportunity, Wes chirps with, "I hear you have a fanpage on Facebook, now."

"Uhhhhhg, go the fuck awaaaaay–"

Wes gets personal with the mic, pushing Soul's head aside with a sturdy hand and completely blocking the computer screen. "They had to photoshop your hair and eyes," he says, defending himself from Soul's flailing fists, "but that dumbstruck look on your mug when Zelda plants one on you has the masses pissing themselves in fandom euphoria."

For the second time in as many weeks, voice chat implodes. Despite this, ReaperMan continues to dutifully tank, spamming a text macro that floods every possible game chat channel with fourteen counts of, "I WILL TURN THIS DRAGON AROUND."

SoulEater dies in a fire.

"Also, I tweeted some of the juicier ones. You should've stayed in the business, kid." Soul sinks low in his chair as his brother whistles Epona's song, strutting out of the bedroom.

"I hate every single one of you," he says into the din of voice chat.

"Even me? I made the fan page," BlackStar cackles, heedless of the feedback bouncing over his own speakers.

"How the f–" He rubs his face with a hand. "You're a shizno, Blake."

"Am I the only one here doing my fucking job?" ReaperMan says, the sounds of her spamming her keys echoing across the internet.

\\

The Kiss really is viral. Another week goes by and his Facebook is a slurry of notifications and friend requests. He's forced to disable alerts on his phone to be able to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. He even goes grocery shopping just to get away from the internet.

Arms laden with heavy plastic bags, he walks into the apartment and finds some half-naked redhead making out with Wes in the living room, happy trail like a Colorado forest fire peeking out from an unzipped jumpsuit.

Soul doesn't have it in himself to scream about it. "'House renos'," he says accusingly.

Wes is straddling his boyfriend's lap on the futon Soul had once enjoyed taking naps on until right this moment. "Hi bro," he smiles, flush from activity. The swollen-lip-look is a million times better on Reaper, Soul thinks, and he refuses to take that thought back out of sheer contempt. "His kid's got homework to do, so we're here for the weekend. Go hang out with your princess, 'kay?"

Well, that confirms that the boyfriend is, by definition, a dilf. He considers throwing up in the entryway just to make a statement. "First off, she's not 'mine'. Second, why must you defile everything I hold dear? At least put a sheet down or something, fuck."

"You can take the caaaaar," his brother sing-songs, which is actually code for: Get out or I will leave condoms in your bathroom.

Soul unceremoniously drops all the groceries and goes to his room to pack a ratty, highschool-era messenger bag. Tells himself he's only complying because he doesn't actually live here, and not because he's had to purchase a full body suit to sanitize his bathroom in the past. "YOU GET TO PUT THE FOOD AWAY," he yells.

\\

He's in the Taco Bell parking lot, sucking up the air conditioning in Wes's car, digesting one-too-many crunchwrap supremes. Calls BlackStar while simultaneously glaring at all the birds that dare sing as if today is a great day.

"Begin," Blake answers, loud road noise already indicating that this will probably be a dead-end.

"Wes is loveshacking the apartment. I need a place for the weekend."

He sits through the required laughter at his misfortune before Blake says, "Denied. I'm goin' on a yoga retreat with Stag."

"W-what? For real?"

"Yeah man, I'm gonna be the hardcore-est yogi of the century."

The problem with Blake Strickland is that Soul can never tell when he's being serious or psyching himself up to look like he's serious when he's actually just cluelessly diving headfirst into something.

"Are you sure you're not doing this to see ShadowStag contorting on some beach?"

"It's important to embrace all aspects of a 'sitch, dude. Will I surpass the limits of my body and become a god? Yes. Will I also have mindblowing flexy-fucktimes with the best druid in Azeroth–"

"I hate you."

"-Yes. Also, Sid and Miranda are renovating the townhouse, so my place is unlivable."

Soul repeatedly thunks the back of his skull on his seat's headrest. "I feel like I should be compensated for what you did to my Facebook."

Blake scoffs. "Bitch, you should be thanking me. Or at least thank me for dragging your grumpy dick to the meetup, because looks like you're gettin' fuckin' cozy with the MT."

He's torn between cursing ten different ways and desperately insisting that cosplay makeouts don't count for anything worthwhile, and he just ends up whining, "Noooooooooooo–"

"Namaste, blueballs. Oh. And Tsubaki is making a lot of hand-flapping that indicates you should 'just call her already', sparkly heart, butcher knife, butcher knife, butcher knife emoji," BlackStar recites.

Soul sighs, regretting the various crunchwrap and friendship decisions he's made in his life. "At first I wondered how she puts up with you, but now I realize it's a symbiotic relationship," he says before hanging up.

Tosses phone into passenger seat. Takes conditioned air into his lungs and holds it, staring at the reflected sky glinting off the touch screen. He is not going to think about his brother and Blake being in what appears to be successful long-distance relationships (that, on top of it, are frequently getting ass). He is not.

Lets out his breath with a groan in that pressurized, throat-scratching way of toddlers throwing a fit in a cereal aisle.

Most viable option for the weekend that wouldn't involve touching questionable hotel bedsheets would be staying with Mom. But if he's driving out that far and has even the slimmest possibility of avoiding clowns, he should take it, right? Under threat of butcher knife emoji, this is what he tells himself as he picks his phone back up. He's avoiding clowns.

One and three-fourths of a ring is all it takes for her to pick up. He blinks, her voice rendered differently over the phone than voice chat. "Eater? Hi!"

She actually sounds kind of happy to hear from him, despite all the shit the guild had given them over The Kiss. He's smiling like a moron at the Maserati emblem on the steering wheel. He blanks. "Uhhh, hey."

"…What's up?"

He closes his eyes. He hears her four nights a week. This should not be any different. "Right. So, I saw Wes's boyfriend half-naked on the couch and I've been exiled for the weekend."

She doesn't quite muffle her laugh fast enough. "O-oh my. Wow. Did you… see anything?"

"More than I would like. Is there, like–" He sighs. "Could I crash at your place? Or, oh. Do you live with other people? I guess I should've fuckin' asked if–"

"I'm staying at my parents' for school," she interrupts. "My mom doesn't live here anymore though. And Papa's on another one of his 'business trips'," she says with heavy-handed skepticism, "and thank god, because I have so many finals to study for–"

"Aw, fuck," he blurts, combing a hand through his hair. His head is spinning with all this information, trying to sift through it and determine if that was the all-clear to stay at her place or not. "I don't wanna bug you or anything."

Her voice comes back just a bit shaded, like she's talking to him through his headset, or they're alone at Denny's. "Just come over."

Soul shifts involuntarily in the driver's seat, the parking lot fading to oblivion. "You sure?"

"Yes." The simplicity of her delivery makes his mouth dry. "If you don't mind driving out here, that is. It's kinda far, isn't it?"

He almost says 'it was either you or the clowns', but he feels that would cheapen something, so he doesn't.

"Naw, I don't mind." And he, the one who does not pursue, wishes he minded at all. "Text me your address?"

\\

She has her hair up in Chun-Li Street Fighter buns, and it's the first time he's ever considered the style attractive, his eyes helplessly following the wispy hairs dancing on the back of her neck as she leads him to the living room.

"Your dad's not gonna like, bust in here and destroy me, right?" Admittedly, Wes had given him something to worry about. He's too young to be put six feet under by the father of someone he's not even dating.

She hums thoughtfully, which is not an encouraging sign. "In theory. I told him I was gonna study all weekend. He may be a fuckboy manther, but he does respect my education."

He laughs, but only because he understands her mortal pain. "Thanks again."

"Sure! I mean it, though, about the studying. I'll be really boring. Guest bed's this way."

Following her down a hallway, he tries not to be curious and guess which door is hers. "You're always boring."

The buns wobble when she whips her head around to stare at him, horrified."What?"

"If you're not talking about dead poets, you're spouting diminishing return algorithms on fuckin' crit chance stats or something."

She looks affronted at first, but an undeniable amusement creeps in at the corners of her face. "Nothing you just said sounded boring whatsoever," she sniffs, a smile in her voice, leading him into a room.

The guest bedroom is mostly sparse, though one wall is entirely covered in a blown-up, high resolution image of space, courtesy of what could only be the Hubble.

He's reminded of her desktop wallpaper, but doesn't pry. "Just tell me your wifi password, nerdlord."

\\

Facebook is as annoying on his laptop as it is on mobile. He logs into the game instead, though it runs choppily compared to his machine at home, and checks his mail and chats with a few people. Gets a few quests done on one of his low-level alts, which he's more inspired to do today than he ever has prior, as any reason to get the reality of being in Reaper's house out of his head is a welcome one.

It's a quarter to midnight when his body finally forgives him for the Taco Hell abuse, and he wanders out of the guest room to see if Reaper's still awake and wants some ice cream or something. Finds her in the living room, on the floor, surrounded by an educational mess.

This is the exact same position he'd found her in two hours prior, when he'd been looking for the bathroom. She's one of those: the type who uses so much brainpower that basic necessities are forgotten, such as food. The concept is completely alien to him– nothing gets between him and food (except, perhaps, string cheese wrappers, but only temporarily).

Soul is about to try to catch her attention without startling her, because she has headphones on and they are blasting some awful high-BPM dubstep, but then, god save him, she starts dancing.

Just a bit– just a torso-centric movement that makes her shoulders look a faintly mesmerizing, even if she is totally off the beat.

It's more for his sake than hers when he waves a hand in front of her face to interrupt her. She blinks owlishly, trying to focus on him after being hunched over a textbook. Knocks her headphones off her ears to hang around her neck.

"Oh hey, what's up?" A yawn. Small, pearly teeth, to which his tongue has already been introduced.

He's getting sidetracked. "Have you eaten anything since I showed up?"

Reaper lolls her head to one side, looking at clock hanging over the fireplace. "No, I was just gonna wait til… dinner."

"It's so not dinnertime anymore."

"Urrggh, this keeps happening."

He sticks his hands in his pockets and scowls at her. "I was gonna get some ice cream but I think you should just give me your kitchen instead."

\\

Reaper's family's kitchen is surprisingly sparse, but against all odds, he has procured pre-made waffles slathered in peanut butter, some probably-still-safe grapes, and a giant pitcher of blue Kool-aid that he may or may not have supplemented with some vanilla flavored booze he'd found buried in the freezer.

"I didn't know we had Kool-aid," she says, shoving half a dozen grapes into her mouth at once. "Are you magic?"

"Survival skills acquired from living with my airheaded brother. By the way, we're getting drunk."

Reaper shoots him a confused look before leaning over and smelling the contents of the pitcher. "But I gotta studyyyy."

Biting into a waffle, he points an angry finger at her, imitating Black Rock Reaper at an over-booked hotel. "You've been studying for the past five hours, and that's only since I got here. Drink the fuckin' Kool-aid. I fought cobwebs in the bottom of the cabinet for this."

She makes one long, obnoxious caw for the better part of a minute while shutting all her textbooks and shoving them to the side. "Fine. Considering your vendetta against spiders, I will drink the spiked blue stuff," she says, carefully bringing the entire jug of Kool-aid to her lips and drinking directly instead of using the cups he'd brought.

He's ten-million percent sure he's never told anyone about his thing about spiders, especially her. "W-what makes you think I have a vendetta?"

Reaper gives him the driest side-eye while picking up her waffle. "For the most part, you ignore critters in dungeons, unless they're spiders. You're always smacking spiders between trash pulls. I'd say there's some history."

She openly laughs at his flabbergasted face.

They end up watching that one Ghibli movie with the wolf princess on his laptop. ReaperMan uses a pen she'd been taking notes with and draws sharp-toothed smiley faces all over his arm, and he lets her, because they're both tipsy and her hand is warm and her eyes are nice to watch when she's giggling and not worrying about aggro.

"Maka," he says, experimental, trying it out on his tongue.

She grunts automatically. Then, a little shocked, she looks up, pen poised. "Oh. Hi? Um, Soul."

He smiles, and it's probably pretty goofy looking, knowing him. "Hey."

Maka beams back at him, blush tinting across her cheeks. And, after scrutinizing him very briefly, she reaches gently for his face with her hand, drawing a mustache on his upper lip.

\\

He visits his mom for lunch while he's in town, but he spends the majority of the weekend napping around Reaper's house while she studies, or distracting himself with Warcraft but inevitably thinking about kissing her a lot.

She continues to dance from time to time, off-tempo to ear-grating electronic madness. He thinks about that a lot too, of her body shifting so subtly, of what that might feel in his lap without costume props and cameras.

He doesn't fucking need this.

Sunday afternoon, he's throwing his junk back into Wes's car when she says, back ramrod straight, "We should do this more often."

He turns around, shutting the car door behind him, wondering just how hopeful he can get in the span of seconds without hitting the redline and exploding. "Yeah?"

"Well, with less studying, maybe," she says guiltily. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it– you took me in at the last second, remember?" He shrugs. "Taking it easy is more my thing anyway."

It's as he's saying this that she sidles in close, suddenly giving him a light, non-invasive hug. She won't look him in the face afterward, but she does smile in his direction. "Raid tonight. Don't be late." And she turns and shuffles back into the house, only turning to wave at him briefly in the doorway.

He shoots back, "Yes, tanktress," before getting in the car. Starts it. Gives one half-wave towards the back window before pulling out of her driveway and down the residential street.

At the first stop sign that is out of view of her house, his body does some weird possessed dance of its own, excitement and agony twisted together.