Soma Week Day 7: Coming of Age

Original Universe. Future.NSFW(ish) for non-descriptive, fluffy, goopy sexytimes.

–

It is physically painful for Soul to watch Maka comb her fingers through her grossly uneven hair. Her left pigtail had been completely lopped off in the wake of their last mission and he knows that it's a small price to pay to rid the world of another witch but it hurts to know that his mistake did this. The usual traitorous thoughts rise to the surface like familiar, old, unwelcome friends: Not fast enough. Not strong enough.

Not goodenough to be her partner.

Maka notices his facial expression behind her in the mirror and smiles thinly. "Don't look like that. I'm eighteen years old now. I think it's about time I got rid of that old hair style."

He watches silently as she makes her way into their kitchen and reaches into the top most drawer. Maka pulls out a pair of sharp scissors and holds them out to him. "Cut it."

Without thinking about it, Soul takes the scissors from her with trembling hands. He can't refuse her, not now and not ever. "Maka–"

"If you feel guilty," she says calmly, "then take responsibility. Cut it."

Maka makes small talk for his benefit as Soul works. She says that he has such a good sense for things like fashion and hair and that she really should have come to him sooner. She tells him that it's going to be such a relief in the summer to have all of that hair off her neck. She mentions, offhandedly, that this was a blessing in disguise, so please, please don't look so sad.

It's only hair, Soul.

Maka's hair is beautiful, even shorn and choppy. Golden blond, fine and silky; he was always jealous of how easily it fell into place without the help of gel. As he cuts, Soul realizes that he selfishly misses her pigtails. He had grown accustomed to them. They were a constant in their chaotic, ever changing world. He loved to tug them playfully. Loved to tie them up for her when she was tired or sick. Loved to pull her down for a kiss and watch her fluster.

"Goodbye, girlhood hair," Maka says wistfully as the blond locks fall. "Maybe now people will stop asking what junior high school I go to." Soul snorts, because short or long hair, Maka would forever be tiny and baby faced.

She squirms in the chair, stilling only when Soul puts a hand on her shoulder. "Mama used to tie my hair up for me when I was little," Maka says quietly. "She was never around much because of missions but I remember that about her. Papa tried to take over but he could never do it as perfectly. I just had to learn on my own."

It's not just hair, Soul thinks. This is a link to her childhood, her mother, the happy memories, and he destroyed it all. Soul finishes evening out the back and puts the scissors down before he can do any more damage. "Maka–"

"I'm not sorry," his meister's voice is firm. "And I don't want you to be, either. It was time for me to let them go."

Maka stands up but won't face him. Soul doesn't have to see her expression to know that she is mourning the loss of her younger self, the sunny, eternal optimist, the one who idolized an absent mother and risked her life every day to prove that she is better than the woman who left and never looked back. He knows he has to let her go through the motions because this is about her pain and not his guilt, but it's impossible for him to stand there quietly when she is hurting.

Soul slides one arm around her waist and pulls her back to him. Maka lets him, easily, and leans heavily, as if she can't find the strength to hold herself up anymore. They are both exhausted, physically and emotionally. They are sick and overworked and in desperate need of comfort that only the other could provide.

Her hair curls under her chin and for the first time, Soul sees a long, pink scrape across her neck, the byproduct of the blade that had cut her hair. Too close, he thinks and tightens his hold on her. He had come much too close to losing her again.

Soul tucks her new, shorter hair behind one ear before leaning down to kiss the mark gently. It is the softest of kisses, the barest brush of lips on skin, reverent and apologetic. He leaves no inch of the scrape untouched, following the trail from the soft juncture between neck and shoulder to behind her ear. Her pulse flutters underneath his mouth and he lingers there, lulled by the steady beat that is proof she is alive. Soul whispers an apology against her skin. He will spend the rest of his life trying to make up for his mistake, if she'll let him.

Her eyes are bright with unshed tears when she finally faces him. "Forever is a really long sentence for one bad haircut," Maka says thickly.

He smiles and cradles her face in his hands, planting a big kiss on her forehead. "Is that a no?"

"Ugh," Maka closes her eyes and the tears slide down her face. "You know it's not."

"Say it clearly, then," Soul drags his lips against damp cheeks. "Or else I won't understand."

Maka pouts. "You say it first."

"Fine. You look hot with short hair."

She smacks him lightly in the stomach but laughs. "You're terrible. Be serious!"

Soul tilts her head up so he can pay homage to the sensitive skin of her throat. Maka lets out a tiny whimper, threads her hands in his hair and tugs at him impatiently– telltale signs that he has successfully distracted her. It is an underhanded tactic, but Maka isn't complaining or beating him over the head with dictionaries so Soul will take this victory.

Eventually Maka grows tired of his teasing and shoves him towards her bedroom, a clear sign that it is time to stop brooding and engage in something more fun that may ruin their chances of getting into heaven. Post mission sex is usually, to quote Liz, "life changing, passionate, paint chipping, ceiling thumping fucking." They are usually high on adrenaline, relieved to be alive, and desperate to feel something, anything, everything, all at once. But even though Maka is ready to throw him down and test the limits of her boxspring, Soul decides to go slowly, peeling off the layers of her clothing like she is a long awaited Christmas present.

Maka lets Soul set the pace– a rarity in itself, since Soul usually concedes to Maka in all things bedroom related– but she squirms impatiently underneath him, nails biting into his shoulders to urge him to go faster, harder, something. He ignores the temptation to speed up and give her what she wants– Soon, he promises, just give him time. One tiny desk lamp illuminates her body, and he is entranced; Soul takes his time just looking at her, quietly appreciating the expanse of scarred skin as he touches each one tenderly.

He makes love to her slowly, more focused on the way her expression changes with every movement than his own release. Her short hair gives him an unobstructed view of her face– flushed, biting her lip as she looks up at him like he just walked off the pages of one of her smutty romance novels– and it takes all of his self control not to finish before her. Her neck is now easily accessible, bare and waiting for open mouthed kisses, teeth, and tongue. No stretch of skin goes untasted and her nails dig into his hips as she whispers his name.

"You're so beautiful," he pants and slides his hand between them to stroke her the way that he knows will get her there. Soul's earnest compliment and the deep voice in her ear pushes her over the edge and Maka writhes underneath him, biting his shoulder to muffle her moans. She trembles and reaches for him, searching for something to anchor her back to Earth; Soul laces his fingers with hers and whispers encouragements hotly against slick, flushed skin. The sensory overload– he can hear her, feel her, taste her– is too much and he follows soon after, her name on his lips, unceremoniously collapsing on top of her.

There are no "I love you's", no overly romantic sentiments. That is not who they are. Maka only complains he's crushing all of her internal organs and nudges him to roll over. Soul settles for holding her from behind, resting his face against her shoulder.

"I don't think I've lost anything," she says sleepily. "I'm just… becoming someone else. Someone better."

He only presses one last lingering kiss to her neck and pulls the blankets over them to combat the chilly desert air.

Soul decides that he rather loves her new short hair.