A/N: This was written as a birthday present for whos-that-foxi-lady, that gorgeous, talented human being, beautiful inside and out. This is phone sex so, smut guys, smut eater, NSFW, GRAPHIC SEX PEOPLE. Fair Warning.
Special thanks to rebornfromash who once again read through my raw crap to make sure it came out at least half-baked.
This treaty with the Witches was really making things difficult.
They'd never been apart before, not for more than a handful of hours, not since becoming partners when they were twelve. They'd never been apart, and neither of them seemed to know quite what to do about it, because beingapart felt wrong and empty and wholly unacceptable.
They had never been apart, and they couldn't have realized how much it would ache to be missing someone who was always there, that they had taken for granted would always be there.
Except, that wasn't true at all. They were only partners, after all. They might still go their separate ways upon graduation, which was barrelling towards them like a runaway train.
Maka worried that Soul would go home, resume his music, or perhaps, take a post as a deathscythe where she couldn't follow, where they wouldn't let her follow. Kid barred her from the negotiations, after all, insisting that at least one of them should show up for class for however long it took to come to an accord over how rogue Witches were to be handled. If he would separate them now, why not after graduation? She didn't think Soul wanted to leave her behind, at least, she hoped he didn't, but that didn't mean he wouldn't if he was given no choice. Kid wouldn't give them no choice for something that big, that life changing… would he?
Soul worried that Maka would decide to go to college, would traipse off halfway across the country to pursue her passion for knowledge. She had put in a few applications just to see, and of course she'd been accepted at all of them—she hadn't accepted the offers, just yet, but that didn't mean shewouldn't and then, what would he do? He'd been offered Marie's old post in Oceana after graduation, but he wouldn't think of taking it if Maka didn't come with the bargain—he'd leave the DWMA behind altogether before he'd even considered taking another meister.
What both of them had come to realize during this separation, with aching clarity, was that they had no wish to be separated. Each of them missed the other fiercely, not that they'd admit it. Maka kept up her cheerful act, going through the motions, never once mentioning how cold and empty their apartment felt without him, even with their pesky magical cat for company. How she kept making too much food because she was constantly forgetting he wasn't there. How her soul felt odd and wrong without his near. Soul whined and moaned and complained about how boring the conference was, about how much he hated diplomatic missions, about how much he missed his XBox and his music and his own bed. He never once, not once, mentioned how desperately he missed her. How all he could think about was coming home, wrapping her in a hug, and never letting her go. How much he wanted to kiss her, soundly, thoroughly.
Oh yes, there was that, too.
He wanted to kiss her, hold her, touch her, take her. He wanted her, had for several years, almost as long as he could remember. He loved her, utterly, hopelessly. Stupid as it was to fall for your partner, he had fallen, hard. Completely and irrevocably. He couldn't imagine life without her, didn't want to, and yet… and yet… now that he was tasting it, he would do anything tostop it. He wished he weren't a coward. Wished he could just tell her everything in his heart. Wished he didn't fear that if he did, she would run screaming. Because he would rather have her as a friend and partner than nothing at all, was terrified of losing her. So he said nothing, did nothing more than he had ever done.
And yet, even by doing nothing he might lose her, and that realization hurt. If anything, this separation had given him the gift of clarity.
Perhaps it was time.
He wasn't alone, though he couldn't know it, not for certain. Maka dreamed of kissing him, holding him, touching him, taking him. She wanted him, though it had taken years for her to know her own heart, had taken this separation for her to admit it to herself. Stupid as it was to fall for your partner, she had, completely and irrevocably. She had never wanted to fall for anyone, especially not her own partner, because that was a recipe for heartbreak; she had seen that first hand. And yet, this was Soul. How could she not love him? She wished she weren't so afraid, that she could just tell him everything in her heart. Wished she didn't fear she wasn't good enough, cool enough, that he would leave her like everyone always left her.
Because she would rather have him as a friend and a partner than nothing at all, was terrified of losing him. So she said nothing, did nothing more than she had ever done.
And yet, as this separation had made painfully clear, by doing nothing she might lose him anyway. By doing nothing, she might end up with a permanent version of this aching hole in her heart, and that was a reality she could not face. Could rejection be worse than this stinging gap, the empty space in her soul where he belonged? She wasn't so sure anymore. Perhaps she should gather all that vaunted courage and actually tell him the truth.
Perhaps it was time.
Soul had a plan. He would tell her. As soon as he got home, he would tell her and let the chips fall where they may, let it be his heaven or his hell.
Maka had a plan. She would tell him. As soon as he got home, she would tell him, and hope that his affection ran as deeply as she hoped it might, that it ran as deeply as hers.
It was getting harder by the day to hold to that plan. It was getting harder by the day not to say I miss you, I need you, I love you.
Three weeks. Three weeks he'd been gone, with no end in sight. Three weeks of essentially playing eye candy on Kid's arm because the Witches had insisted that "The Last Death Scythe" attend, even if they didn't actually want to talk to him.
It turned out that Arachne had been as feared and hated among Witches as she had been among humans, and he was something of a folk hero in their realm. It was obnoxious. It was like he had hundreds of Blairs throwing themselves in his path, hundreds of magical fangirls to stave off when all he really wanted was to be home with the one girl who meant something, the one girl who wasn't taken in by his (in his opinion) rather dubious charms.
The one girl who seemed just as happy without him as with him. He couldn't say it didn't sting, just a little.
Three weeks had gone by and he was getting more than a little desperate. Of course, so was she.
It was getting harder and harder for her to keep up the facade that everything was fine. Harder and harder for her to sound cheerful, for her voice not to crack with emotion when she heard his voice on the phone. Harder and harder not to seek his soul, even across this dimensional divide, even so far away.
She missed him so desperately, his scent, his fleeting touches, his mere presence.
He missed her so desperately, the feel of her hand in his, the smell of her skin, the sound of her voice.
Another long day as a wall flower gone by, another long day long day of keeping from the spotlight, of avoiding his odd contingency of admirers, he flopped down on the guestroom bed in the Palace that Maaba kept, his clothes discarded haphazardly anywhere and everywhere because he was tired and he didn't give a fuck and he just wanted to talk to Maka. Boxers were comfortable, and who the hell was there to see?
Sprawled out on the bed, he dialed their home number and hoped his meister was home. It was just past dinner time—she should be—but sometimes she ate with Tsubaki and Star, or at the Gallows with him not around, and he didn't fancy hunting her down and having to deal with their friends. It wasn't that he didn't miss them, too—more that he wanted her to himself.
He missed them. He needed her.
The phone only rang once before she picked up.
"Hello? Evans Albarn residence." Her voice sounded too cheerful.
"Hello, Albarn, this is Evans." He couldn't help it. Even with him three weeks gone, she was still answering with his name.
"Oh! Soul! I thought it might be you! You're calling a little late, is everything okay?" Was that—concern in her voice? It was the first time he had heard a crack in her cheerful facade. He almost choked.
"Uh, 's fine, Maka. The stupid dinner just ran late. No big deal, sorry if you were—uh—worried."
"I wasn't worried!" She corrected immediately. Had she sounded worried? She didn't want him to think—to think—not yet, anyway, not like this. She wasn't ready yet. "I was just, um, wondering. That's all. Anyway, how are you? How was your day?"
"Same old, same old. A lot of Maaba's assistant yammering and Kid yammering back," he elided the part about having to dodge forward witches because she did not need to know that. "Too many people, none of them all that cool. None of them y—" shit shit, don't say it! "—young and hip like me, you know?" That was close, far too close. Time to change the subject. "Are Liz and Patti still mopey?" He asked
"I guess," she said, and he could practically hear the shrug in her voice. God he missed her voice, missed her. "It's only natural isn't it? For weapons to miss their meister? I mean, doesn't Kid miss them?"
It's only natural? Did that mean, was she implying, that— "I think he does, yeah. I mean, he calls them on the mirror most nights, and he seems—well, off, I guess. He hasn't said he misses them, you know, but he's picked up little gifts for them, and keeps talking about how he's going to pay for them to go to DCU after graduation because they seem interested and he doesn't want to hold them back, that sort of thing."
"Ah," she said, a little distantly, a little lost in thought. He talked about Kid and Liz and Patti missing each other so easily, and yet, didn't seem to miss her at all.
"So, um, what have you been up to?" he asked.
Usually he spent more time bitching about his day. It threw her off just a bit. What had she been up to? She went to school, came home, heated up a frozen dinner, and for the past three hours, she'd been lying in his clothes onhis bed, listening to his music, waiting for him to call. She had taken to sleeping in his bed the first week because it made her feel closer to him and because she missed him so damned much. Blair had teased her mercilessly, but she didn't care—she needed to feel near him some way, and this was all she had right now. Not that she'd tell him that.
"Not much, same stuff," she replied after a short pause.
"So what, school, reading, studying?" he laughed. "Typical nerd."
"Nooo!" she replied, indignant. "More like school, dinner, lazing around and listening to m—you know what, it's none of your business!"
"Wait, wait, what's this I hear? The bookworm was listening to—were you going to say music, instead of studying or reading?" He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Surely something is very amiss with the world if Maka Albarn is choosing music over books!"
"I—I—" she was becoming flustered, because he was hitting so dangerously close to home. "I listen to music sometimes! I don't only read! And anyway, something is amiss, you idiot, because I mis—" No no no, she shouldn't say it, not yet. "I—mean—" she began to stammer.
"You—miss? You miss what?" He pushed, his heart hammering in his chest. She had seemed so normal and cheerful, but she'd just admitted to listening to music when she should be studying, and maybe—
"I didn't mean, that is to say, I—" She didn't want to lie to him, but it felt like crossing a line, to admit this, to acknowledge it, silly as it was, normal as it should be to miss a friend. But she didn't miss his friendship. She didn't miss him like Liz and Patti missed Kid, and to admit that she missed him at all skirted dangerously close to admitting more.
"…or is it who?" Death, had she missed him like he missed her? He'd been fearing admitting even that much, petrified that once the feelings started he couldn't stop them, but could it hurt—to admit this? Maybe—maybe— "Because you know how you were talking about it bein' natural, for weapons to miss their meisters? I know I miss you, Maka, every minute, every second."
"I—" she felt like she couldn't breathe. "I miss you too, Soul. So much." Death, it felt good to say it, and she couldn't stop the flood of words, offeelings, because he missed her too! "I've been laying here, listening to your favorite music, just waiting for you to call because, I swear to Death, I don't know what else to do with myself anymore, and I—"
"Wait, you were listening to my music. But I have my mp3 player. Are you—are you in my room?" Because the stereo was in his room, and it almost always stayed there except when they had company because she claimed his music bothered her, and if she was listening to his music, then it had to be records, which definitely meant the stereo, and he knew she was clueless about how to hook it up in the living room herself and and—she said she waslazing around, and the thought that she might be laying on his bed listening to his music sent shiver down his spine.
"Y..yes?" she said hesitantly, her voice cracking, her face flushing scarlet though there was no one there to see it. She refused to lie to him, but ugh—now he knew she'd been in his room, and it was—Shinigami, it was—
She expected him to be pissed. She was invading his personal space while he wasn't there to stop it. Nevermind it was because she missed him so desperately. Nevermind she'd gladly face his wrath in person if he were actually there, right there to offer it.
He wasn't pissed. He felt warm. He felt hot. He thought about her, lying on his bed, wearing his clothes—wait, was she? She stole his things to sleep in all the damned time, and he claimed it annoyed him as it secretly thrilled him to see her in his boxers and his t-shirts, draped in his things and only his things.
"Did you—steal my clothes again?" He tried to keep his voice even, but it washard. At this point, that was both literal and figurative and the overwhelming urge to touch himself washed over him with nearly painful urgency. Well, what harm? She couldn't see him, so she wouldn't know, and he loved her and missed her and she was lying on his bed and he thought of her when he touched himself every damned time, so why not now? He could keep his voice even. It would be alright.
"I—yeah," she admitted, her flush brightening. His voice sounded so deep and husky that she could almost imagine he liked the thought, but of course, that couldn't be true. Still, in his bed, in his clothes, with his warm, deep voice in her ear, the urge to touch herself was almost overwhelming. And what harm? He couldn't see her, so he wouldn't know, and she loved him and missed him and was lying on his bed and she thought of him when she touched herself, always, so why not now? She could keep her voice even. He wouldn't know.
"What—are you wearing?" he practically growled at her, surprising her and sending a pang of want through her core. She was touching herself now, her fingers sliding under his boxers and against her wet clit. She imagined his fingers in their place and had to bite down the urge to moan, to pant.
Maybe she was panting a little. Surely, he wouldn't notice over such a long distance, interdimensional connection?
"Um—your, uh, lucky skull boxers—and, uh—your Radiohead concert t-shirt?" She hoped she sounded nervous. He couldn't know how she sounded when she was aroused.
He groaned, because now he had an image of his clothes to go with her on his bed, and he wore those shorts all the time, and it was almost like an indirect—oh fuck, and he had been touching himself for the last few minutes, and with her voice and her pants in his ear, he could picture her stroking him, and shit, maybe this was a bad idea because—because keeping his voice even was next to impossible. Anger. He could play it off as anger, right? "Fuck," it was a gasp of pleasure, but she couldn't know that, could she? "I've told you a hundred times—not—to steal my—clothes, urgh…" Damn, this felt too good, he couldn't.
"I—I know," she stammered out, because the sound of his voice, rough and—she knew it was angry, must be, but it almost sounded like something else, she could definitely imagine it was something else, and the moisture slipping between her thighs increased, and by Shinigami, hearing his rough voice while she touched herself felt dangerous and heady and she couldn't stop, even if she knew she should. "B—but I—ahhhh—I told you, I, uh, um, oh, missed you, and uh it—may—made me feel—oh my Death—uh—closer. To you."
Fuck, she sounded so hot. Like she was panting and, oh god, stammering. She should be screaming at him to mind his own damned business, asshole, but she wasn't—instead she almost sounded. Sounded….
No, she wouldn't. She would never. Especially not on his bed. In his clothes. Talking to him.
Yet the image slammed into him forcefully, of her touching herself, and he almost came on the spot. Almost. As it was, he moaned.
"Soul, are you, are you—alright?" Her voice was tentative, shaky, but still—
He tried to play it off as a groan of anger. Could she be that naive? Please, please be that naive… "'M fine, jus—uh-ahhh, mmm—just um, can't believe you'd—oh—mmm—ooohhh, do that—I mean, take my—unnn—shit like that?"
His voice sounded so rough and raw, so—needy. Was that anger? It didn't sound like anger. It almost sounded—almost sounded—
The image of him, doing exactly what she was doing as she was doing it hit her forcefully, knocking her breathless, causing a shiver of desire, of pleasure, to hit her hard.
"Soul," she breathed, her brain hazy with the feel of her own fingers, with the sound of her own voice. She was tired, lonely, could almost pretend she was dreaming. "What are you doing?"
"I'm—uh—mmm—" His hand froze. Shit, oh Death, oh Death, she couldn't know—he couldn't tell her, fuck, he—
"Are you—mmm—wearing clothes?" She pushed, the haze so thick, so strong.
"I—nnnn—" Fuck, her voice was so husky and hot and that question. He began moving his hand again, drowning in her tone, in her.
"Are you—ahhhh—touching yourself?" She stifled her moan at the thought, the idea she had asked it, she would ask it, would do this at all, impossible. How had it come this far? Oh Death, what would he think if—if—
"Ye—es," his voice broke, but the truth slipped out. Wrapped up in her breathiness, her command—the aura of something like want—he could do no less.
"Good," she breathed, and he couldn't help it, he moaned her name, long and loud. She knew. She knew, and she was—happy? She was—
"Maka," he breathed.
"Yes, mmm, Soul?" Shit she sounded hot. He couldn't believe he was asking, that this was happening, but the words came tumbling out because there was no turning back, now. This train had left the station and was hurtling towards its destination.
"Are you—unnnf—touching yourself—too?" His voice was low, almost a rasp. It made her shiver again. He was touching himself. With her, to her. He must—oh shit, he must feel—
"Ye-es," she half spoke, half moaned.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. She was touching herself. With him, to him. He ached to touch her. For her to touch him.
"I wish I could—un, shit—touch you. Fuck," he was close, the thought of her like that, wanting that, too much.
"Me—too—mmm—So—Soooul, oh my—Souuul!" She moaned out because she was close, so close, the thought of him wanting to touch her too much, far too much.
The sound of her voice, moaning her pleasure, moaning his name, sent him over the edge, and he responded in kind, "Mmmaaaakaaaa! Fuck! Fuck! Makaaa!"
The sound of his voice, moaning his pleasure, moaning her name, sent her over the edge, and she couldn't help but to gasp out, "Soul—oh—oh—Sooooouuuul!"
Both saw stars for several minutes, panting, coming down from that impossible high.
Both were sated, so sated, wrapped in warmth, wrapped the knowledge that this thing they felt, so overwhelming, could be, might be, possibly was, mutual.
Both were too embarassed for words because they had just…. They had just…
Maka broke the silence first. She had never felt comfortable in silence, not like him.
"Soul?" she asked softly, hesitantly, afraid that something might break if she weren't careful.
"Yes?" his voice was just as careful.
"I really miss you." It was almost a plea.
"Yeah, me too." It was definitely a promise.
She had meant to wait, but why wait?
"I—I love you." She couldn't keep the tremor from her voice.
"Me too. I love you, too." He couldn't keep the relief, the elation from his.
"Do you—do you think you'll be—home soon?" He could almost hear her swallow, feel her nervousness. He wanted to hold her, touch her, let her know it was okay, that he was hers, that she didn't have to be afraid, not of this, not of him.
He didn't think he'd be home soon, not if Kid and the Witches had their way. The negotiations were practically at a standstill, but he'd served his time, they didn't need him. He was done, and he was going to tell them he was done because they didn't need him, but he needed his meister, and now, now he was certain that she needed him, too.
The truth hit him forcefully and his heart swelled. Maka would never have done that, said that, if it wasn't true. Not Maka.
"I'm going to go to Kid and ask him to send me home, no, make him send me home." The resolve in his voice was like steel, and Maka's heart lept, it soared.
"But—if they need you, Soul," her voice was hesitant, her wish for him to be here, now, warring with her sense of duty.
"They don't. I've been sitting on my thumbs, cooling my heels the whole damned time, you know that. They don't need me, but I need you, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," she agreed, her voice breathy, her heart beating faster with the possibility that he was coming home. She felt nervous and giddy at what might happen when he returned.
"I'll see you soon, hopefully tomorrow. You can—you can sleep where you are, if you want. I don't, uh, mind."
"I've been sleeping here for weeks," she admitted, and the smile in her voice made him smile in return.
"Yeah, well, it's good you've gotten used to it. You'll need to be. I'm gonna go grab Kid and make arrangements. So uh, bye, Maka. Love you," he let the last part out quickly, new and thrilling.
"Love you too, Soul." Her response was just as quick.
And then there was a click, and the line went dead.
Hopefully, they wouldn't need to make another phone call for awhile.
After all, they clearly had better things to do.