He leaves voice chat connected all the time- or maybe she does? Whosever idea it was, neither of them directly acknowledges. It just becomes second-nature to hear her disembodied voice at random hours of the day, like a friendly ghost of the apartment.
She's not around today, though, which is just as well because Blake has invaded, and if Wes isn't around to annoy Soul over how 'the cute warcraft voice' renders him stupid, Blake will surely take up the mantle given the opportunity.
Soul pauses on a line of code, worrying if being perpetually connected to Reaper via voice chat is somehow unnatural. They're about as inseparable as his brother and her dad, and mental ulcers about that aside, it's probably weird, isn't it? Because they're just internet friends.
If it's not weird, it's certainly an eternal spring of false hopes, but that's to be expected when one is an uncool bag of dicks.
Sitting on the floor with his laptop, Soul 'supervises' Blake, who is presently spreading his sweaty obnoxiousness all over Wes's workout equipment. Somewhere between programming and sickening self-analyzation, his shoulders have become stiff, so he takes his frustration out on the apartment interloper. "I should be charging you for using our gym," he complains with a stretch.
Without missing a beat, BlackStar says, "I pay you with my godly proximity," while using the pull up bar. "My aura buffs your pathetic social stats."
Soul replies with a mere grunt, which in hindsight is almost as bad as outright concession. "Just don't leave your fuckin' socks here." Because those things should come with a surgeon general's warning.
And then a timid, "Eater?" trickles to his ears from the other side of the apartment. His nervous system briefly short-circuits, and though he recovers quickly, it's not enough- Soul's skin itches from Blake's bored stare: the very loudest silence known to man.
"Q-B's," the rogue says, finishing his set.
Pausing as he shuts his laptop, Soul cautiously asks, "Cue-what?"
BlackStar looks physically aggrieved to spell it out. He loads up a weight bar. "Quantum Buttbuddies."
"I hate that I've wasted time being alive to hear you speak." Soul bolts to his feet, ears hot. Then, in overcompensation, he walks away as lazily as possible in lieu of scrambling across the floor to his bedroom like an excited dog on linoleum.
He calmly enters his room. Sits in the squeaky desk chair. Ignores how sweaty his finger is on the push-to-talk key.
He is Soul Evans, and he is cool. Be cool.
"...Hey."
Nailed it.
"Oh. You're home, um, ignore that text I just sent."
From his pocket, Yzma demands he pull the lever, Kronk. The message reads, [[ You busy right now? ]]
He gauges how anxious he should feel when ReaperMan attempts to contact him multiple ways in quick succession. It feels urgent.
Urgency has a tendency to make him jump to the best and worst case scenarios. In this instance, he frets over her possibly asking him out, or maybe telling him someone died. Maybe she's forcing him to roll Resto and become her personal heal-slave. Maybe Wes caught her house on fire trying to make waffles for his dilfy boyfriend.
There's no appropriate level of anxiousness in this situation, so it maxes out just to cover all his bases. Soul puts a hand on his jittering leg to still it before answering.
"I'm working on a project, why?" Cooler than Antarctica.
"Project?"
"Yeah, uh. Programming."
"Oh," she replies, distracted. "Well, if you're busy... I can just-" More background noise than usual: papers, cloth, a sense of fidgeting.
A hesitant Reaper makes him nervous. "Hey, make words already."
There's a distant dinosaur growl, like she's leaned back from her mic to call to her pterodactyl ancestors. "It's not for a while, obviously, but I was wondering if- I mean, I'm getting my Bachelor's. Would you wanna go?"
Soul squints until his brain parses his myriad of questions. "Toooo your graduation?" he says, somewhat dumbstruck by her thinking to invite him at all.
"That." A nervous laugh. "That thing, yes."
He slouches in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck with an antsy hand. "Geeze, thought somethin' bad happened," he tries to bitch, but the smile stealing over his face is trying harder and winning. If Reaper is bashful over something this benign, that means nothing, nothing, stop analyzing everything.
"Bad? No! Why would you think that?"
The smile has succeeded in taking the throne. "Wouldn't you normally just assign me a time and threaten me to not be late?"
He tilts his head and backlogs whatever that noise just was, imagining her with that rosy flush: Denny's version. She says, "That's- true. And don't expect otherwise. But if it's not in-game, I probably shouldn't, you know, o-order you around."
Nevermind that he would obey any command she gave because he's a contemptible wreck, but still, he's touched.
"So do you wanna go? Or not."
"Yes, tanktress, I do." Understatement.
And the semi-breathless way she says, "Yeah?" burns him alive.
Right now, she almost feels within reach. "Just tell me when. I'll show up," he says, listening to the faint, confidential laugh she gifts his ears, like there's no one for miles but them.
Which isn't the case. Reality, the Original Troll, returns in full force. Strolling into the bedroom like it's his, Blake reaches for the push-to-talk key and cheerfully says, "IRL gratz, shorty!" Without looking, he tosses his sweat-soaked towel in Soul's laundry hamper. Soul splutters as his dirty clothes becomes unbearably so.
"B-BlackStar?"
"The very same," Soul says, dispirited and preparing for what will doubtlessly be a turn of events that inspire him to fling himself off the apartment tower at Mach IV.
"So when do I get my invite?" BlackStar asks while putting a foot to Soul's office chair and rolling him away from the desk. Soul, plopping his head on the backrest and glaring resigned hatred into the ceiling, drifts away like an abandoned pool toy.
Reaper recovers from her surprise. "When you sprout goddamn wings- I still haven't forgotten that auction house shitshow you started."
"You and I both know that was all in good fun-"
"Get bent," Reaper interrupts, causing painful feedback over the speakers.
"Aw, come on." Blake then gives Soul a look and gestures towards the monitor, imploring for his intervention. Soul presents him the middle fingers of his hands. "Alright fine, I'll do arenas with you if you invite me," he says.
"You only wanna go 'cause Stag's going!"
"Obviously."
ReaperMan growls under her breath. "...You'll really do arenas?"
Crossing his arms and nodding as if she can see it, BlackStar solemnly says, "A whole week of godly PvP with the great me, guaranteed."
"3-v-3's," she demands, all business. "You, me, and Death."
Soul witnesses the first time in known history in which Blake Strickland not only leans two inches away from a microphone, but does so warily. The moment is, unfortunately, too fleeting for Soul to whip out his phone to paste it on Instagram.
"Wha- that guy?" Blake asks, shrugging a shoulder. "I'd rather roll Alliance just to meet him in arenas and wipe the floor with his clothy ass."
Reaper is not impressed. "Do you want to be Tsubaki's plus-one at my graduation or not?"
With a disgusted face, Blake agrees. "Deal. Why threes, though? We'd rock 2v2."
"Eater's my twos partner," she says, matter of fact.
Soul rolls his chair hard enough to collide into the desk before he slaps his hand on the push to talk button. "WHAT. Since when?"
"Since now."
That jump off the apartment building is sounding more lucrative than ever. "Maaan, I hate PvP. I'm so squishy-"
"Yeah you are," Blake says while Soul's hand is on the button, hauling off his shirt like Soul's apartment is a fucking locker room while walking down the hall. "I'm using your shower, QB."
"You don't live here. If I find pubes on the soap again I'm hacking your insta and posting your middle school photos," he says, seething. Belatedly realizes he's still pressing the talk button. "Sorry."
After a moment, Reaper asks,"Cue-bees?"
No sooner than it's out of her mouth, Blake's loud footsteps stomp back down the hall and into the room. To Soul's horror, he's lost the pants and is only in underwear that Soul does not want to confirm is a leopard print jockstrap. He smacks Soul's hand out of the way to talk.
"Quantum Buttbuddies-"
"Pants. Dude. Pan-"
"Wh-what does that even mean?"
"You're the other one, by the way."
"Excuse me?"
"There's no excuse for either of you, to be honest," BlackStar replies, unfazed by Soul shying away from his sweaty underwear like he's fleeing from Chernobyl. "But like, if I were to privately ask you, 'hey, what kind of pizza do you like,' Soul, through the buttbuddy continuum, would immediately ask me 'wanna hit up CiCi's,' which, apart from being fuckin' creepy, is just sick. Who eats at CiCi's on purpose?"
Completely disregarding the subject matter, Reaper says, "They have mac and cheese pizza!" while Soul sneers a disdainful, "I would never invite you to CiCi's."
BlackStar rolls his eyes. "It was hypothetical. You only take your mom on dates there, I get it."
"Please catch on fire."
\\
"We met in Barnes and Noble," she says as they run Blackheart through an easy 10-man raid. Half the group is on break while Soul attempts to climb on top of places players aren't supposed to reach. "In the poetry section."
He winces. "Oh, that's… great-"
"Stop making that face, poetry is a legitimate artform!"
"I'm not making a face." He turns his head away from the monitor, as if she can see him through it.
"Don't say you're not making a face while you're obviously making it. Anyway, Ro helps with my cosplay stuff. Armor and weapons- they're really great! Well, you saw them, already." 'Ro' being short for 'Rowan', who emotes with bashful denial in party chat. "And youstop making that face!" Reaper snarls to Blackheart.
The break ends, and the almighty tanktress wastes no time launching herself face-first into clusters of trash mobs. There are actual healers this time, so Soul can relax long enough to send a private message to Blackheart:
[[ u going to reaper's graduation? ]]
A nervous, chubby emoticon of vaguely Japanese flavor is the immediate response- The warlock replies at breakneck, ShadowStag-level speeds. Combat halts anything else for a few minutes, but then Soul gets a, [[ i won't be able to! ]], followed by a teary face. [[ i can't take the time off ]]
[[ that sucks ]]
[[ are you? Maka said she wanted to invite you ]]
Something in the transmission of his brain grinds a gear, because 'Maka' is a name he doesn't allow himself to think. Kind of like having the courtesy to not say 'fuck' in front of Mom. Reaper's IRL name is a raw thing and he's used it all of one time while mildly intoxicated.
He also doesn't know why the knowledge of her wanting to invite him to the ceremony does anything to him at all- she's already asked him to attend, for fuck's sake. This isn't new information.
Shoves nachos in his face as a mental diversion. Starts and deletes four incoherent replies before settling with an anticlimactic, [[ yeah ]]
Feeling conflicted now, seeing as he started his conversation for advice but Ro isn't allowed to partake in the fun. After the next group of mobs are down, Soul finally gets to the point and asks, [[ so if i were to get her a grad present, would u have any suggestions ]]
He's bombarded with such a slurry of excitable emoting that Soul suspects Blackheart has an array of macros assigned to every possible key on the keyboard, and probably an equal amount of Redbull. [[ i don't know if you would be interested but I HAVE AN IDEA :D ]]
\\
Soul hates every limbic soap opera his brain produces when he's conscious. To say that he doesn't involuntarily wonder how 'close' two cosplaying poetry nerds can be would be a lie, but he does his level best to not dwell on it because it's irrelevant. He's not looking for a long distance relationship, for starters, and just because he's crushing on Reaper doesn't mean any of her real-life relationships are remotely his business.
Plus, Blackheart did have a pretty great idea, once Soul was able to sift through a wall of otaku emoticons to find it. The gift burns inside his wallet, which lives in his pocket at all hours, and he's so impatient for the graduation ceremony that he's starting to annoy himself.
The creepy smile is getting a lot of mileage, lately. He'll be ready to cosplay that one guy in no time.
"You look pretty happy over some gas station donuts," Wes says too early in the morning.
Soul wipes his face clean of every emotion except suspicion, looking up from the bag of powdered donuts he's failing at opening. "You're conscious." He looks over his shoulder for the microwave clock. "It's not even nine."
Hair limp and a thumb sliding into the waistband of his high-dollar pyjamas, his brother looks almost like a mere mortal, and the very thought makes Soul's skin itchy. Like avoiding another one of Mom's phonecalls, Wes shies away from eye contact and says, "You should start lookin' for your own place."
Soul's hands freeze around the bag. Exceedingly more tranquil than he actually feels, he drawls, "Why, did you get fired? Develop a wrinkle?"
"No," his brother says, sliding out a bar stool from the other side of the counter without sitting in it. His fingers drum on the backrest. "Okay, your options are really: move back to the Clownhouse, get your own place, or… maybe, potentially, sort-of moving in with me and Spirit."
This feeling isn't gut-sinking so much as a sensation of the earth rising up to swallow him whole. He nearly drops the donuts. "Wh- I- you?" Soul takes a lengthy moment to regroup himself. "Doesn't he, uh, have a daughter?"
Wes finally eases into the chair and slides the bag from Soul's motionless hands. "Yeah. I thought she was a lot younger. Turns out she's graduating college." His face twists before rewarding himself with white, powdery hell in donut form.
A distant backlog of thought wants to find this humorous, but another process reminds him that the looks-like-she's-a-Girl-Scout daughter is the same person whose ass is in his spank bank. Soul's self-hatred burns him down and melts him to the kitchen floor, out of sight.
"You really like this dilf, don't you," he murmurs to the despairing reflection in the dishwasher door.
Wes loudly opens the donut bag again in lieu of answering, which is a Soul Evans Certified tactic. As the author of that instruction manual, Soul sighs.
How the fuck did this happen? How did his playboy of a brother get into a relationship that has lasted not only longer than four days, but has, against all odds, become serious enough to get him to talk to his little brother about it before breakfast on a weekday? This long-distance thing was supposed to be inherently fucked.
Why did it have to be Reaper's dad?
Soul cringes. That's irrelevant, and he knows it. He is Wes's brother before he is anyone's daughter's not-even-actual love interest, so he resolves to feel sorry for himself later.
"I'm happy for you," he says, watching his 'normal' life sprout wings and enter the arms of heaven. "...Tentatively."
He hears Wes scoff. "I guess that's better than not at all."
Soul reaches overhead and grasps the edge of the counter, hauling himself back up to give his brother a flat stare. "You are co-signing for my new place."
"Yeah, okay," Wes replies, mouth full and tilting the bag towards him.
Shoving his hand in the bag, Soul adds, "And getting me a new futon."
"Fiiiine."
"And you're not living with me if you get dumped again-"
"Okay Dad." The bag is taken out of joint custody, Wes hoarding it to himself. "I'm attempting to not mess this up. And moving in with him's not even a for-sure thing- we're waiting to see how things… are. When his kid moves away."
The back of Soul's hand is stuck to the front of his face, mid-wipe of sugary cocaine. He blinks three times, compiling. Confirms what he's just heard before he remembers what he's doing. "Away?"
"For grad school, yeah. She's gotta wait to see where she's accepted, I guess?"
Soul strategically retreats to the sink to wash his hands. Lathers.
He can't be surprised Reaper's going to grad school- it would be absurd if she didn't- but she hadn't mentioned applying or moving. At least, not to him. Mechanically rinses, lather coursing off his fingers. It's none of his business, just like the rest of her real life.
She's the tank; he's the kamikaze-healer. They're internet friends. The end.
...Except she tells him the things she won't say in guild chat. She says 'good morning' over his speakers, but quietly enough so that she doesn't wake up his brother. She meets him spur-of-the-moment at Denny's, even after finding out her dad is the dilf his brother makes kissy faces over Skype for.
She had invited him to a real-life event. But she invited Blake too, so… maybe that doesn't hold as much meaning as he'd thought. Or rather, not as much as he'd secretly, silently wanted it to mean.
Water continues swirling down the black hole of the drain.
God, he's a bag of dicks.
"Did she say which schools?" he doesn't mean to say, but, unfortunately, does.
"Uh. I didn't ask? Brother," Wes says warily, leaning over the counter to get a better look at the predictable crisis of Soul's existence. "Why do you wanna know?"
Soul laments over his head being too big to fit down the garbage disposal. "She's the princess." He risks a glance back to Wes, who has returned to model immortality: a picture-perfect expression of refined befuddlement on his face.
"Who is?"
"Spirit's daughter."
"...Wait. What princess?"
"Zelda."
Wes squints. "I'm confused."
Soul carefully turns off the sink, wishing that doing so would also stem the word-vomit that's about to spew from him, but knowing it won't. "Your boyfriend's daughter is Princess Zelda. From the gifsets. That you spread all over twitter. She's in my guild and we met and we found out you're boning her DAD-"
Leaning even further over the counter, Wes says, "She's the one you've been visiting?"
Soul makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat.
"How the fuck-" Eyes going wide in alarm, his brother asks, "Are you guys togethe-"
"No," Soul says, nearly wheezing. Busies himself with drying his hands on his jeans. "N-no. We- she's- no. We're just friends."
The horror abruptly vanishes and that insured smile takes its place. "But you like her."
"I swear to God, Wes-"
"And she seems to like you plenty, judging by those nerd pics."
Soul throws his face to the ceiling and groans. "That doesn't count. She's not even into me, man."
His brother, who seems to have already forgotten the important part of the conversation where he's banging Reaper's father, wears the most satisfied, post-canary grin as he leans back in his chair. "Of course it counts. Have you even seen the gifsets?"
"I was fucking there, I don't need to s-" Soul levels Wes with a blank stare fit for Mom's house and all her frozen-faced clowns. "Do the women you kiss for photoshoots count?"
Wes initially tries to brush away that logic, but, after a small pause, his smile turns to something like sympathy when he accurately reads Soul's face between the lines. He opens his mouth, but shuts it again on a sigh.
"You're co-signing."
"...Soul."
"And getting me a new futon."
Slinging an arm over the backrest, Wes concedes. "Okay, but have you even asked her?"
"We're just friends," he repeats, firm. Soul turns away, leaving the kitchen while saying, "Plus, she's moving. You know I don't do long-distance." Though he's having a hell of a time remembering why.
\\\
"Healadins have no goddamn manners," Reaper says, her mouse clicking rapidly in the background, competing with the loud hum of her computer fans in the summer heat. "I think BlackStar had the right idea. I should roll Ally so I can gank his stupid, bald ass."
Underneath his desk and hunting for a free USB port in the back of his machine which he knows, deep down, doesn't exist, Soul reaches up and around to blindly find his talk button. "In Bullhead's defense, healing you is stressful as hell."
"Why do you sound so weird? Also why is Mister I Only Play Tauren, who loyally confessed, 'Let's faction swap' to me, now siding with-" Click click click click click click- "the most obnoxiouspaladin in existence?!"
"Just 'cause I'd roll Worgen for you doesn't mean I won't call you out," he says. "I can't help if Ox is better at picking internet flowers than you are. I drool in my sleep sometimes; you aren't the best at everything. Embrace your flaws, Reaper." She gives him a few colorful epithets for that. "Also I'm lookin' for a USB port."
"For his heated dino slippers," says Wes in a smooth, leather-seat voice that is disgusting when one is related to him. Soul smacks his head under the desk and curses.
"WHY."
"Hi, Wes." Then, after a pause, "Uh, isn't it June? ...In California?"
Soul gets a face full of dusty dress sock as his brother forcibly keeps him under the desk. "He's a fragile thing. Poor circulation, you know? I need to find him a good family that can provide for his high-maintenance upkeep."
"That's a laugh, coming from you," Soul bites back, trying to whack behind Wes's knees with a karate-chop hand. His brother backs away, relinquishing voice chat.
"Somehow I'm not entirely surprised," says Reaper.
Soul scrambles out from under the desk, double-checking to make sure his mic isn't still triggered. "Stop talking about me like I'm a geriatric dog, crotchrot."
When he turns around, Wes is holding a USB hub and a sanguine smile. "You never know. Maybe she'll let you warm your feet on her when you snuggle. I bet she's a big-spoon."
Imagining the code to a macro that, were they in the game, would wreck his brother's face up his own ass, Soul calmly accepts the hub without making a fool out of himself. "Why are you like this? Don't you have a dilf to fornicate with," he asks, but then remembers to whom the dilf is related. His organs all attempt to commit ritual suicide. "Hurgh."
"Just trying to find you a forever-home," Wes says. "Are you giving me permission to see my boyfriend, Mom?"
Ideally, he'd like to keep his lunch in his stomach. Soul retreats back under the desk to do some peripheral tetris for the USB hub, admitting defeat. "Leave me and my slippers in peace."
"You're welcome," Wes says on his way out. "Don't pee on the floor~"
Soul grumbles to his computer. It's not his fault his feet are cold all the time. Probably.
Some time after Wes leaves, when Soul is back in his computer chair and his dino slippers are warming his toes, Reaper sighs over the mic. "I give up on potion farming. I only got online to put off dealing with my ancient printer, anyway."
"Bullhead run you off?" Creepy smile.
"I'm. Admitting. My flaws," she says between grit teeth. "Do you have a baseball bat? I wanna go Office Space on this thing."
"Why, what're you tryin' to do?"
"I wastrying to print out labels to these stupid invitations. It gave up the ghost, though. Now I gotta hand-write a million of these." Then she growls out, "Papa wants me to mail him one even though we livetogether. What a waste of a stamp!"
There's a twinge in the vicinity of his chest, but Soul studiously ignores it. "Well, you don't have to send me one. Already invited me."
An unexpected silence follows, putting Soul on edge. "...If you don't want one, that's fine. I-"
He scrambles over himself to say, "Uh, I only mean you don't need to, like, go out of your way?" Teeth gnawing on his lip, he adds, "Since you already have a bunch to do. Unless you just really want-"
At the risk of ear-splitting reverb, she interjects with, "I want to."
"Oh."
"If that's cool."
"Y-yeah, totally."
"Sending invites to people I actually want to show up isn't, um, an inconvenience? To me."
He vehemently wishes he could reprogram whatever it is that makes his face burn so heatedly in what should be benign situations. Stares at his hesitant hand hovering over the talk button.
"Unlike my weirdo dad, who's just gonna smother me to death like I'm graduating preschool."
He laughs, but it's awkward, limping thing. "Ah-hah. Thanks, then. I'll wait for it."
Reaper's laugh is hardly any better, but she soldiers on. "Anyway, at least I don't have to send one out to Mama, I guess."
"Oh yeah." That whole astronaut thing. Relieved to turn the subject further away from himself, he says, "That sucks. No spacemail?"
"Eh. I can send stuff once in awhile," she says. Then, more quietly, "But it's not like she can come, you know? Waste of a stamp."
Having met her in person a few times, he's been able to imagine her at her computer now and again- smashing the keys, grinning victoriously- but right this moment he sees someone else. She's night-lit eyes in the desert, the space between the ground and a distant metallic speck drifting overhead written in her face.
Remembering her then, not as a tank but as someone named Maka, animates him. An idea blooms urgently in his chest, pushing aside his own conflict with surprising ease.
\\
Because of Blake's megaphone mouth, ReaperMan's graduation becomes an excuse for another Vegas meet-up for the guild. At face value, Soul doesn't have any pressing complaints, but what neither he nor Reaper had taken into consideration beforehand was Spirit Albarn's plus-one.
Traffic had been about as bad in Vegas as L.A., and Soul ends up in the nosebleeds of the convention center, watching an ant-sized Reaper trotting across the stage to accept her diploma. All the while, his phone explodes with messages from scattered guildies, his pants vibrating enough that the people seated around him probably have reason to suspect sex toys at play. The moment Reaper's bit is done, Soul flees to the nearest set of restrooms to put his fucking phone on silent and contemplate diving into a dumpster until the rest of the guild is gone and can't force him into a Your Relatives Are Boning inquisition in person.
Soul stops short upon entering the bathroom, his shoes scuffing loudly on floor tiles- he had not anticipated seeing his raid leader washing his hands at the long line of sinks. He shares a long moment of unnerving eye contact with Death the Priest's reflection in the vanity mirror, the other man tilting his head to get a better look under Soul's baseball hat.
Maybe he won't recognize him.
"Eater." Damn.
Desperate, Soul flings out a hand at eighty miles per hour. "Before you go into the sordid details of how Reaper and I will be related if my brother and her old man get married, please consider, uh, not… doing any of that."
Death gives him a look through the mirror that roughly translates to, "I'm only keeping you for your crit damage," which Soul now comes to accept is how the guy probably always looks whenever Soul opens his stupid mouth in voice chat. "Actually, I was going to warn you- I sat behind Mr. Albarn and your brother during the ceremony."
Deflating, Soul lets his arm fall and tucks both hands protectively into his pockets. "God. What did your blood-elf eyes see?"
Carefully replacing his various rings after drying his hands, Death says, "They were looking at condos together on your brother's iPad."
Admittedly, Soul had been expecting far worse, though he supposes this only means there's very little that is. "Oh. This isn't really news to me, but… thanks," he says, awkwardness echoing in the bathroom.
Death has the grace to look mildly beleaguered on Soul's behalf. "I can keep the heckling to a minimum during raids, but you're on your own, otherwise."
"Buh-" He stares at Spartoi's raid leader, dumbfounded. "You'd do that for me? You would do that for me?"
Because the priest is the type to overdress for his main tank's college graduation and give no apparent fucks about long sleeves in the middle of summer, Death adjusts his cufflinks while his face makes a strained effort to not roll his eyeballs out of their sockets. "For me. I spend too much of my waking life with all of you to not lead a raid without some semblance of order." He glances up and bores holes directly and mercilessly into Soul's brain pan. "To do otherwise would simply move me to homicide."
Soul shrugs not out of confusion but more as an effort to stay off Death's hit-list. "Yeah, okay."
A phone buzzes, Soul having a momentary Pavlovian cringe-attack to the noise before he realizes it's not from his. Death pulls out a chrome-plated thing from a suit pocket and makes another one of those expressions that nudges Soul's fight-or-flight reflex.
After returning the phone to his pocket, the man says, "I've been rudely informed by my latest 3v3 partner-"
"I had nothing to do with that, by the way."
"- that I should tell you there will be an afterparty at 'The Black Door', because you've turned off your phone."
"Oh. Uh. Okay. ...Cool?"
And, having fulfilled his duty, Death leaves the bathroom without any other ceremony.
\\
Though instinct had urged him to just stay in the bathroom where it's safe, he adventures outside to the sprawling concrete steps of the convention center. Graduates are slowly filing out of the building, scattered nuclei to their groups of friends and family, and there are cameras every six feet. Soul tugs his hat more firmly over his stark hair, the sun beating down on his back.
He would like very much like to find Reaper before running into guildies, his brother, or her old man. Trying to find her shortness in this huge crowd initially feels like a futile effort, but his powerful, pitiable ear has become attuned to her, and he catches a ray of that public sunshine voice piercing through the mess.
Looking over various shoulders, he finds her a few yards away, hugging fellow graduates and people who congratulate her. He should probably be over there doing that, but he stays rooted in place.
This is a new version he hasn't seen: Reaper the Accomplished Adult. Her makeup is subtle and complimentary, hair half-up in a sensible-looking clip. When he sees the combat boots peeking from under the ceremony gown, the wave of loneliness that overflows into this grave he's been steadily digging allows him to accurately measure just how far gone he really is.
And then, despite not having spoken or gestured or given any indication of his presence, spooky action at a distance occurs, as if his thinking of her forces Maka Albarn to look over her right shoulder and peer through the crowd across insignificant distance.
She spots him and smiles.
Accepting a heavy-looking gift bag and a hug from a woman with a massive-enough chest that Maka borders on suffocation, she breaks away with a wave, sliding through the throngs of people to him. Something in the tilt of her eyes makes his overclocked heart ache.
"You made it," she says, fanning her bangs off her forehead with her graduate cap. "I almost didn't see you, with that hat."
"Ah, yeah." They stand before one another. For normal, real-life friends, a hug would probably fill this timeslot. "I figure the less chance of your dad seeing his kinky boyfriend's little brother talking to you, the longer I'll live."
She scrunches her nose with a laugh. "Has your phone been exploding, too?"
Looking around for any nearby guildies, he flatlines, "Say the word and I'll roll Alliance," though it feels absurd talking about an online video game when she's standing on the bright steps and holding a diploma.
Maka doesn't seem to mind, though. Rocking forward on her feet with a grin, she says, "Don't worry. I'm turning the next raid boss on them." While Soul stifles a laugh, she hefts the gift bag higher on her arm, juggling her diploma and cap at the same time. "Geeze, what did she get me? Weighs a shitload-"
"Who was that, earlier? A profess-oof!"
"Hold this."
So now he's holding her grad cap and diploma. She tucks a bit of her hair behind an ear with a huff before pawing through glittery purple tissue papery. "Blair. She works at Barnes and No-haa, uhhh-" Her eyes go wide, color draining from her face.
Soul leans a little and peers into the bag. Catches a glimpse of glossy neon in various form-factor before Maka hurriedly tries to replace the tissue paper. He blurts, "That's a lot of penises," before she can slam her hand over his mouth.
"Shut UP," she says with a hiss, pale complexion now quickly burning bright as the bag's contents as she looks over her shoulders in paranoia.
He can't help it- he's cracking up, pushing her hand aside and hooking the edge of the bag with a finger to look again. "You have a very thoughtful friend," he chokes out. Maka makes a close-lipped noise akin to a police siren. "I didn't realize they came with hotrod paint jobs-"
She snatches the diploma back from him and promptly smacks him with it. It doesn't stem his laughter though, and she tilts her head back to look straight at the sun. "I shoulda known she'd pull something. I'm gonna throw these over the Dam."
"Aw, that's a waste. Her gift easily trumps mine," Soul says, and the bait has barely touched the water before he gets a bite, Maka's eyes whipping to his face.
"You got me something?"
He fishes his wallet out and slides an envelope out of the billfold. Dangles this by her face. "Sorry it's not ribbed or painted in flames."
Maka winces, but it's a half-hearted thing, overpowered by charming kind of shyness as she tucks her diploma under an arm and reaches for the envelope, green eyes searching his face. "Thank you."
He lets her slide the gift from his fingers. "Congrats, Reaper."
She giggles a little, still obviously taken aback as she had evidently not expected anything from him. "Thank you," she says again, focused on opening the envelope. "I- What are these?"
Soul watches her eyebrows screw together as she shuffles through the three cut squares of printer paper he'd stuffed inside. Each one has a QR code with no explanation.
"Technically, it was Blackheart's idea," he says. Watches her stew that around in her head, her palpable confusion stepping up a notch. "They're uh, whatever it is you need to get VIP passes to Anime E-"
Maka shrieks. "AX? You got me tic- Wait, VIP? Oh my shi- These are- Why did- How are-"
She makes it easy for him to ignore the rubbernecking crowd. "Finish one of those sentences, please," he says, smiling.
After another short scream, she says, "I just, Soul, VIP passes are expensive!"
"Chill. I got paid for my last project. Don't even worry about it."
Her excitement abruptly dies as she tilts her head to one side, considering him. "Paid?"
"Uhm… yes?"
"As in: you have a job?"
Soul's mouth falls open, appalled. "Did you honestly think videogame macros were the height of my talents?"
Hands clutching the Anime Expo tickets to her chest in fear that he'll take them back, she shrinks back and shrugs. "N-no, I'm just surprised you're, you know, employed."
"Reaper!"
"I'm just saying!"
"Why is this more shocking than the clowns?"
"I dunno, I just always figured you were the spoiled rich kid rolling around in designer jeans?"
He purses his lips into a tight line and plops her graduation cap back on top of her head. "I mean, you're not wrong, but of course I have a job." Spins the cap around and mucks up her hair for good measure. "I'm a freelance programmer."
"O-oh." Maka's hands are still full, she she can't do much about the cap other than push it out of her eyes with the backs of her knuckles and look at him with a new kind of blush is blooming high on her cheeks. "My mistake," she says, though her expression doesn't read apologetic- Soul doesn't know what it reads at all. It's fleeting, whatever it is, and she looks back to the loot in her hands.
"Um, I can't help but notice there's three of these..."
"I figured Ro'd wanna go, so," he says, rubbing the sweat off the back of his neck.
She's diverted for a moment, but not for long. "That makes two."
"Right." He picks at a mostly-imagined speck of fluff on his shirt, hoping to buy some time and maybe some courage while he's at it. "Wes and my's apartment isn't far from AX. But if you wanted someone else to go-"
"You."
It's shocking how instantly his nerves and anxiety go quiet when she does things like this- removes the world from his awareness, his doubts and unfulfilled wants evaporating while she demands his focus with a mere word.
His breath stills when she steps forward, scuffed boots followed by flowing gown followed the freckles bridging across her nose as she leans in for eye contact. "You're coming with us."
Ears getting hot, he says, "If you want."
Her smile dances on her lips, and she quietly asks in such confidential tones, "Can I put you in a plugsuit?"
He immediately agrees.
Then he actually processes it. "W-wait-"
Maka steps out of his orbit, nearly marching in place with excitement. "You just said yes, no takebacks!"
"No, I- takebacks? Is this preschool graduation after all?"
She opens her mouth to reply, but then her eyes go unfocused- she hears it before he does: a distant, worrisome cry of, "Makaaaaa!" from the doors of the convention center.
"Is someone dying?" he asks with concern, and then he's winded when a heavy collection of sex toys is shoved into his stomach.
"You will be if he sees us together with this stupid grab-bag of dongs. Take the dildos and run."
"Did you just say that just so you could say that?"
Maka pushes him further into the crowd. "Go go go go go," she urges, and Soul catches a glimpse of forest-fire hair and realizes how hazardous his situation is. "You're coming to the afterparty, right?"
"Uhhh, yeah, sure-"
"I'll meet you there."
\\
He writes a comment in the mental code to stop blindly agreeing to everything she asks.
Reaper's already out dancing with the more outgoing guildies when he shows up late to The Black Door, which is just as well, because these kinds of places are not his thing. He retreats to the darkest corner of the bar and nurses a very hardcore, non-alcoholic water with the bag of dildos tucked between his feet like an emperor penguin standing sentinel over a nuclear bomb of an egg. He has his leather jacket draped over it for safety, but the only way he's moving from this spot is if Reaper drags him away from it.
At least the music is passable, if not outdated. Soul could go so far as to say he likes circa 2001 trip-hop, but not when he's being hit on by Spartoi's raiding shaman- that just ruins the music by association.
HungRung, whose toon name is enough for Soul to fling himself off the earth merely for having to think it, has just performed the one-two once-over and smooth offer of a drink.
Soul growls under his breath before saying, "This is water so I guess I'm a cheap date. Also, damnit Rung, I'm Eater."
The shaman squints in the dancing lights and gets a better look at Soul's face. "Shit, what? Sorry, man. It's your hat, didn't recognize you." Soul rips the damned thing off his head as Rung sits back with an easy laugh. Takes another glug of his Jack and Coke. "I mean, offer still stands-"
Soul withstands the secondary appraisal, now technically a twice-over, but only just. "Stop talking. Besides, I like someone else," he says disdainfully- and realizing a breath later that he feels a little more justified in his agony after having said it aloud. It's almost a relief.
Kilik Rung, a guild officer and forum admin, has the decency to know when to quit. He waves a hand in defeat. "Yeah, alright. Forgive me for not asking if your brother's single."
Putting his head in his hands, Soul comes to terms with the fact that he'll never be able to listen to Massive Attack ever again. "How did BlackStar react to Wes and Reaper's dad, anyway?"
"Mmm... after the mass-text to the guild?" Rung taps a finger on the edge of his glass. "It was the first time I've heard his evil chuckle in person. Nice knowin' ya. Leave your account to me when you go into self-imposed exile."
Soul whimpers. Rung takes pity on him for a grand total of fifty-five seconds.
"Sooo… when you say you have 'someone you like'-"
"No."
"-does that mean you're not dating Reaper?"
Rescinding the 'knows when to quit' title from Rung, Soul huffs. "I'd like to make it just one day without failing the Reverse Bechdel, so can we not have this conversation?"
Kilik shrugs. "Sure, but uh… have you had it with her?"
Sitting up straight, Soul's unsure what he means by that and has three-fourths of a glare loaded and ready when he asks, "Had what with her?"
"This conversation," Rung says, unimpressed. "She's going east coast, isn't she?"
Trip-hop goes loud in his ears, filling the vacant space that is his inability to reply. He doesn't need to make any response- whatever is on his face gets Kilik wincing.
"She didn't tell you. I... would not've guessed that."
Soul puts his hat back on.
Rung says, "Stag asked, after the ceremony. We were all there- where were you?"
Slouching over the bar, Soul plops his chin into a hand. "Running away with dildos," he says. East coast. As in: the complete ass-opposite end of Los Angeles. As in: the opposite direction of him. The distance between him and Reaper has never been relevant in their friendship, so why the fuck does this matter to him so much?
Kilik's drink is paused mid-raise to his lips. "Do what?"
"Some lady gave them to her as a gift, her dad was coming, Reaper shoved them at me, I didn't wanna die..." he says, counting off the bizarro sequence of events on his free hand. "Whatever. No. She didn't tell me anything; I didn't ask. It doesn't matter."
He's subjected to a pensive stare for a long moment before Rung finally finishes off his drink and orders another. "Where are they?" the shaman asks.
"Huh?"
"The dongs."
Soul shifts to the side, away from the leering smile that steadily spreads across Kilik's face. "W-why?"
Stifling a laugh, Rung waves Soul back in while also leaning closer. He holds a hand near his mouth, as if to tell a secret; nothing about this can be good.
Making it clear with just his scowl that he does not trust this situation at all, Soul eventually obliges. In a low voice, Rung says, "I can think of a lotta things, but the majority of them start with BlackStar and end with Reaper punching him in the face in public."
Call him seduced, but Soul already has his phone out and turning on before Kilik has even finished speaking.
\\
It's not the first time Blake has gotten him kicked out of a bar, though this is the first time a dildo fight has been the cause. BlackStar waves around a double-ended variant at the rest of the guild lingering in the parking lot, street lights shining off its glossy, undulating surface while he discusses which bar to next crash. ReaperMan fumes on the sidelines, standing next to Soul in a half-and-half mixture of anger and mortification.
"I've never been banned from anywhere before!"
Soul shrugs into his jacket, free from dildo-guarding prison now that the bag is out of his care. "You get used to it, hanging around him."
"You're the one who got him started," she says, smacking him on the shoulder.
"You're the one who gave them to me!"
She crosses her arms, looking askance as a boot scuffs the asphalt. "That- yes. Okay. But I definitely saved your life."
"Yeah yeah, my death knight in shining armor," he teases, and the pink that touches her ears both pleases and wounds him. He can't stop himself from flustering her further. "I get you tickets to AX and you tell me to disappear. What a cruel tanktress."
"That's not what I-"
"If you were gonna tell me to get lost after giving you something, I figured it would be for the other present, not that one."
Her eyes narrow. "Other?" she asks, and she's turned the tables on him, somehow- he's the one feeling flustered under that gaze, now that he has to explain himself.
"Yeah, I…" Soul looks back over at the rest of the guild, assuring their attention is on BlackStar and his magic dildo wand. Returns to Reaper, leather jacket creaking as he rolls a shoulder. Quietly, he says, "I have somethin' else to give you, by the way."
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. Maka carefully gauges his hesitance, watching as he steps between her and the guild, keeping his back to them. "What do you mean," she says, tone cautious and just as quiet. "You didn't have to get me anything in the first place, much less-"
"I know. I… had an idea after I already bought the other thing, and, I dunno." Soul blows nervous air through his teeth. "I'm not sure you'll like it."
His nervousness seems to infect her, and she fidgets, lashes catching street lights as she rapidly blinks. "What is it?"
"You might get mad at me."
Accusatory, she says with an acidic glare, "More dildos?"
"No!" he says, emphatic, but then ends up snickering at her expression and cracks a smile. "I'm bein' serious, here, promise."
She's thoroughly stumped, now, and he thinks her eyes dart to his mouth for a loaded second. Heat shoots down his spine.
He swallows. His hand fumbles a bit in his pocket before pulling out a pair of folding headphones. "Um. Anyway, put these on for a sec," he says, unfolding them and carefully setting the cans over her ears before she has time to protest or he has any more time to think about kissing her.
The headphones are a little too big for her, but she's too dumbfounded to adjust them, one hand coming up to keep the left side at ear-level. "W-what are you-"
But he's already got the tail end of the cord, plugging it into the headphone jack of his phone. Pulls up an email in his inbox. Opens the video attachment. Adjusts the volume before handing it to her in landscape view. "Just watch it."
Soul presses play, backing away a step to witness the single millisecond it takes her eyes to rivet on the screen, face lit by OLED glow.
As natural as a fish in water, Suzume Albarn floating around in the ISS is a strangely calming sight, though it doesn't do enough to abate the thunder in his chest.
He hasn't memorized the whole vid- he's only watched it once, just to make sure it worked, and not even all the way through because that felt like a stomach-turning breach of privacy- but the part he did see was more than enough to be etched deeply in memory:
I'm so proud of you. More than anything, I wish I could be there for you right now. Did you know that, out here, the brightest thing is actually home? You make the Earth shine.
Maka watches it all the way through, her one hand on side of the headphones pressing the can as close as possible. She restarts the video the moment it ends.
After the second playback, she looks up at Soul, eyes red-rimmed and wet, and then she suddenly remembers the rest of the guild is a few parking spaces away. She scoots closer, using him as a shield to hide behind.
Crying is usually a bad thing, so he thinks he's fucked up royally enough to be assassinated on the throne of his own making. Guilt eats him alive as he pulls some Subway napkins from his back pocket and offers them in atonement.
She drags the headphones to rest on her neck and accepts the napkins, though not without asking, "Why do you…?"
"If you think I'd walk around anywhere in Vegas and touch unknown goo on public door handles without being prepared, you're insane."
"What?" She dabs under her eyes, trying to capture errant smudges of mascara. Clears her throat, the phone clutched to her chest. "How did you do this."
He moves a bit closer, the need to block her from Spartoi stronger than ever. "Well… a lot of emails, mostly. Does it even matter how?" Slowly easing his phone from her so she can have both hands to wipe her tears, he asks, "Am I in trouble? I shouldn't have butted in. I'm really sorry if-"
"Just fucking kiss, assholes!" says BlackStar from the other side of the lot.
Soul twists around with a hiss. "Can you shut up for three goddamn minutes?"
Then ShadowStag catches a glimpse of Maka and goes from pleasant to stone-cold predator in less than a blink. "Is she crying? Eater, God help me I willmake pinatas out of your testicles if you've-"
Maka squawks and frantically waves off Stag's death threats. "It's okay! I'm okay, Soul didn't- I'm fine."
The look Tsubaki gives Soul across five empty parking spaces is pure butcher knife emoji, but she makes no moves for his balls. "We're heading out to another club," she says.
"I'll catch up," Maka replies, reassuring the druid with another round of hand-flapping. The guild, BlackStar included, leave them to themselves, and it's a fucking Christmas miracle. Then Soul is pinned mercilessly by Maka's eyes.
He shakily sighs and answers her silent question. "Long distance sucks. And like, you're literally the furthest anyone can be from someone else. I dunno."
Maka silently crumples the napkin in her hand before threading her arms under his open jacket, encircling him as she plants her face in his chest with a tiny thump.
He's never really hugged her. She's always come in and made contact for the briefest of moments before he can even consider reciprocating, but she lingers this time, present, sharing the same space. More than a voice, more than a nebulous entity behind a character or cosplay, she warms his chest and he tentatively curls around her, resting his chin on her head.
Oh no.
This is the only place he wants to be.
"Did you just snot on my shirt?"
"No," she says, nasal. "Maybe some makeup, though. I hope you brought a Tide-pen."
Soul snorts. "Whatever. So, I didn't do a bad thing?"
Maka shakes her head, her hair scratching against his chin.
"Okay," he says, relieved. His arms press her just a breath closer.
"Sorry about giving you dildo duty." They share a laugh in the most literal sense, closely held together enough that he wouldn't be horribly opposed if the world ended with just this- it would be enough.
And he almost asks her then: Where are you going? What is your plan? Am I in it at all?
"Thank you," she says. She's so very warm against his chest; it shoots a pang through him with razored longing.
He doesn't ask.