burned into my brain are these stolen images
by. Poisoned Scarlett
act nine
Her dance always continues in his mind for far longer than the show.
He thinks about this as he lays on the couch in his apartment, the curtains drawn to keep the last tendrils of sunlight from bothering him, his tie askew, and his dress shoes knocked over somewhere under the coffee table. He goes over the last few weeks with her, goes over every lingering kiss and squealing laugh of hers. He thinks about the way the corner of her mouth twitches before she grins and how her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she slumbers. How headlights cut over her pretty face at midnight, how she sits at the edge of the bed drowsily for a second before making her way to the bathroom in the morning. How she wipes her palms on her thighs before she does anything, how she rubs the bridge of her nose with her knuckles or wiggles her toes into socks or scratches the nape her neck when she's stressed or stretches until her back cracks after practice.
There is a bitterness that comes with being the one who waits. There has been nothing he does better than waiting and he knows that things shouldn't be like this for him. He should be more proactive, more confident in himself, do something about it, even, but these thoughts don't help him out of bed in the morning. These thoughts do nothing more but motivate his hand to grab his pillow so he could muffle his groans with it. He's never had that high of a self-esteem, not to mention his ambitions have always been sub-par compared to others. He knows this, he's known this his whole life. He's simply not cut out for the big lights like Maka is, no matter what she says. He's not that type of person, doesn't want to be. Perhaps it's because he grew up with it, watched his brother get sucked into it and feared the changes it brought, but there are people made to be in the light and then there are people made to be in the dark. He is one of those people in the dark, watching it happen and keeping it steady. That is his job and he doesn't complain, likes it even, likes to watch her shine brighter than the stage lights as he guides her along with his music.
He likes to think of himself as practical.
It just becomes a problem when practicality gets in the way of doing the right thing.
"Soul, where did you leave my comb?"
"Bathroom."
"It's not there! I just checked!"
"Check again!"
"No, it's not there!" Her voice grows muffled as she rummages through the drawers. Soul waits patiently and smiles when she releases a cheery ahah, returning to her post-shower routine. They had just returned from her going away party at the dance studio. The girls had been a lot more emotional than he thought they would be although he really shouldn't be surprised: for all Maka had shouted at them for, she had been a stupendous instructor, and of course she would be missed dearly. Tsugumi had been appointed the next lead, something the girl grew very pale at and had to sit down for out of shock. Soul was wary about that decision but Maka had faith in the girl so he didn't push it anymore than he had to. Maka had left everything in such order that he wonders if this included himself, too. He figures it did, he already told her he would wait and he promised to, no matter how long it took, no matter the changes the light brought to her. He promised and he was a man of his word.
But there is still a bitterness that comes with being the one who waits.
"What are you staring at?" a sudden rush of violet and pomegranate invades his nose and when he turns, he finds her leaning over the edge of the couch. The wet tips of her hair brush his cheek and her smile is slight but noticeable, enough to light her verdant eyes with just enough warmth. He's come to understand she has degrees of warmth. She has warmth for Tsugumi and her determination, Marie and her motherly fretting, for her passion and art form, for her own mother, and even her father although she shakes her head at him most times. And then she has warmth for him, just enough that he knows it's reserved only for him, and he will do everything he can to keep it that way.
This is why his bitterness does not last long.
"I was actually sleeping."
"...with your eyes open?"
"Yeah," he stretches out and she vaults over the couch, landing beside him in a bounce of blonde and cheer. He wraps his arm around her, tucking her under him snugly. "S'a talent."
"You could fall asleep anywhere," she sighs, but she still nuzzles his shoulder. "Especially at the studio."
"It's not my fault it gets boring after an hour."
"You know, if it was any other guy, they'd be thrilled to watch girls stretch," Maka dryly reminds.
He smirks and his limp arm comes alive again, hand groping down her side until he reaches her ticklish spot. "I only wanna' see one girl stretch, and..." his smirk becomes a grin when she squeals, trying to writhe out of his grasp. But he holds on tight, letting his hand run down her sides as she shrieks with laughter. "She'd stretch for me all I want, right?" He growls playfully in her ear, grabbing her around her waist and sitting her on his lap. She wraps her arm around his neck and pulls herself closely to him, her giggles subduing to a smile that he can feel against his pulse.
"If you'd stretch for me, I'd stretch more," she sings coaxingly.
"I don't think you want to see me stretch."
"I do."
"No."
"Soul, please?"
"No, I don't do 'stretching'," he air-quotes loftily and fights down a grin when she scowls.
"You make it sound like you've above stretches!"
"That's because I am—ow, alright, I'm not! I just don't do stretching! I haven't since I was in high school, Maka, and I fell asleep half the time..."
"How do you even fall asleep...never mind, I can see it," she sighs. She pushes his arm away and crawls on her knees, sitting herself on his lap instead. Soul watches her spread her palms into a star on his chest, how her hair curls at the tips the longer it's left out of its restraints, the longer it's left out of the contraption she calls a flat-iron. She can see confusion in his eyes but she ignores it in favor of letting her hands slide down his chest, down to his stomach. She wants to remember how he feels, how his chest rises and falls, how his stomach tenses when the pads of her fingers press over it. She wants to remember how he jerks his chin up, keeps his eyes steady on her, always on her, when she lifts his shirt just enough to trace over the trail of white that leads past his jeans. She pulls his shirt back down, leans forward and kisses him full on the mouth, caressing the stubble on his cheek with her hand.
"I like it better when your hair is down," he rasps, clearing his throat right after.
"It's frizzy."
"It's fine," he runs a hand down her head in an affectionate pet and adds, "Your hair is straight enough, Maka, who are you trying to beat? A pole?"
"No!" Maka pouts, running a hand down her hair herself. "It's frizzy and it gets wavy if I don't iron it. A-and I've been thinking about dying it-!"
"No," he interrupts, angling his head so his eyes met her shy ones. "Don't dye your hair, it's fine how it is. I like it."
"But...wouldn't it look better if it were a more, vibrant color?" She tentatively asks. Her fingers fist over strands of her hair self-consciously. "It's such a plain color..."
"What, everyone loves your hair color, Maka. They're always talkin' about it during breaks at the studio, you know that," he frowns, lifting her chin with his finger so she looked at him. She drops her eyes but looks back after a moment, finding truth in his gaze. "Don't ever dye your hair or alter yourself like that 'cause you think it'd make your prettier. You can't be anymore pretty than you already are, anything else would make you...less you." He quickly brings her face to his shoulder before she can ask and lets his fingers find her tickle spots again. He tickles her to get attention off himself, off his next words, off the red that dusts his face and makes his jaw clench and his throat tight, because this is what love does, it makes one vulnerable and horribly, horribly honest. "I love you how you are."
"A-ah, no, stop!" Maka laughs, swatting his hand away. "Soul, stop, I—" She bursts into a squeal of laughter and wiggles off his lap to get away. He grabs her ankle before she can and teases her about it being fat, something she growls at and tries to hit him for. They war for another hour, Maka whining about him not having any weak spots while she had many and most of them she hadn't known herself. He finds another spot right beneath her wrist before she gets tired and curls into a ball to shield herself, even though he knows she's ticklish on her neck and side.
"Did you say something?" She mumbles after she's calmed and curled up comfortably on the couch with her legs on his lap.
"Hm? When?"
"Before, you were going to say something, I saw it," she shifts to look at him.
"Oh. Yeah. Forgot," he lies.
"Oh. Okay."
He tries not to think about her impending flight to New York.
He tries not to think about the mess of facial products in the bathroom, the way she's folded his clothes in the drawers and added her own, the way her laptop sits next to his on the desk, or how he uses her headphones to listen to music at night. He tries not to think about these things because they'll be gone in two days. His bathroom counter will be clean again, his drawers a mess and emptier, his desk will have more room, and he'll no longer have Maka whacking him on the head for taking her headphones again.
"Soul," Maka mumbles, kicking his side. "Change the channel."
"Wanna' watch a movie?"
"No, the History channel!"
"Come the hell on, really?"
"Yes, really! Change it, hurry! The premier of this new Viking show is on in five minutes!"
"Makaaaa..."
"Change it," she growls, jabbing her toes into his side.
"Ouch! Okay, fine! But only this show, I wanna' watch a movie before we go to sleep..."
"We'll see!" She giggles at his flat look but he changes the channel, settling in for what he assumes will be another drab documentary. At his broody look, Maka wiggles down a little more and plants her foot in his chest, smiling warmly when he looks at her. At the sight of her smile, his annoyance drains, and he sighs, looking back at the television, massaging her calf.
There is a bitterness that comes with waiting but he is willing to swallow it just to keep her degree of warmth for him.