Day 2: Can't Sleep
I've forgotten to credit the lovely makapedia with reading over this story for me! Thank you, makapedia!
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She was such a shitty liar, much too straightforward to be fibbing like that. "You really mean you think she's 'genuine'," added a part of him he'd always denied until she came along. He flipped his pillow to the cool side and sighed into it.
Soul would rarely assume that anyone had romantic feelings for him. He'd learned, over the course of his twenty years on the planet, that such a thing was possible, but never with anyone who seemed to actually know him.
Now, though, he'd spent nine months knowing Maka, and a third of that time trying to figure out how to resonate. There was a spark between them that just wasn't supposed to be there. He kept trying to squander it, because that would be bad bad bad bad bad, and he wondered if that meant he was squandering the resonance, too. Maka had often compared it to the idea of a spark.
He'd had a sense for a while now that she was also holding back.
Soul opened his eyes and stared into the darkness of his one-room apartment, as if it would help him think better. The stack of magazines on his bedside table, some containing articles and opinion pieces, reminded him that a weapon being close friends with a human was widely considered 'odd,' and a weapon in love with a human would be considered wrong by many.
He didn't see himself as a monster. He felt like a normal- well, like humans felt, probably. But there were blades in his DNA. A very essential part of his being involved turning in part or in whole into a massive scythe. He could, if he wanted, rip any non-weapon to pieces in a few moments, and people (mostly humans) were afraid.
He couldn't blame them. Some of his kind did terrible things. Some of his kind were real monsters. There was a reason the rest of the world pushed most of the weapons into their own territories, a small group of countries that got on with everyone else by virtue of promising to control their own demons. It mostly worked. Of that much they could be proud.
Soul's thoughts returned, as if they were magnetized, to Maka. To her confidence in reaching out, to her earnest interest and desire to learn about weapons and him.
This was definitely love. Her lips had been soft and open against the skin at the base of his neck, and there was no possibility she "didn't mean it that way," the beautiful little liar.
Acting on his love for her could ruin both of their lives, especially hers. Oh, it wasn't illegal. They wouldn't be put to death or go to jail, but they could lose their lives all the same. Her employer, a public school, wouldn't want to be known as a sponsor of weapon-fuckers. At lot of his friends would feel he was consorting with the enemy. Her grandparents would freak out. How would her mother react? Soul was pretty sure she wouldn't disown her daughter, but surely she wouldn't be supportive. His own family, still up in their ivory tower away from the sticky issues of weaponhood, would be as anxious and phony about his controversial relationship as they were about him being a weapon in the first place (except, perhaps, for Gran and Wes, but he didn't want to create any conflict between them and the others).
Almost half of the general population was in favor of outlawing any weapon/human sexual contact.
When she'd come to him saying she wanted to try resonating because she'd read about it, he'd bought her idea that it would be interesting, an experiment, an accomplishment. But there was more to it: the promise of getting closer to Maka and her dreams.
Soul turned to his side, hugging a pillow - a poor substitute for the person he was thinking of, really.