1998

.

Getting clotheslined by blue-haired Hulk Hogan is not how Maka had envisioned her dramatic entrance.

It's like something out of a bad movie. She's minding her own business, strutting in with her girlicious clique, when out of nowhere, he zooms in, a mass blur of neon yellow tights and blue construction pape, taped onto his upper lip in the crude shape of a mustache. There is too much rippling muscle to be contained in such tight, brightly dyed skivvies, and much like a train wreck, she can't look away, mesmerized by biceps and bulge and overgrown pits, ugh.

He hits like a freight train, too. He might be a stout thing, barely pushing 5'4'', but Blake Barrett is built like a tank. Baby Spice just about has the wind knocked out of her as her childhood best friend-come-brother figure rams into her like a linebacker, all broad shoulder, and Maka shrieks as she tumbles back into the grass, legs flipping into the air.

It's not at all how she had envisioned her entrance. Finding Blake laying between her legs, grinning at her boyishly from his perch over her is certainly not what girlish teenage dreams are made of. Maybe nightmares - he hits so damn hard, and Maka might be tougher than your average Joe Schmoe, but that particular move is going to bruise. And, ugh, talk about grass stains!

"Blake-!"

"Black*Star," he yowls, grinning as he pins her shoulders back into the lawn. "Use my star name when I'm in costume, girl!"

He's ridiculous. He's going to be the death of her. Maka grunts and fits him with a glare as Tsubaki frets beside her. "Black*Star," Maka growls instead, with Blake's resulting nod of approval prompting further conversation, "do you mind?! Do you have any idea how long it took Tsu to sew this costume?"

He blinks. Stares down at her, spread legs doing nothing to shield bare thigh from the wandering eye. "Not really much here," he says, quite seriously. "I could'a wrapped a sock 'round you for the same effect-"

Maka shrieks, frees a hand from his grasp and slugs him in the shoulder. "Take that back! She worked so hard, you idiot-"

"-Yeah, yeah, Tsu's a goddess, we all know." Blake waves off such obvious praise and shoots Posh Spice an apologetic smile. When she laughs it off and shrugs, Hulk Hogan with the absurd fake mustache turns his attentions back to the girl pinned in the grass, brows waggling. "You're getting rusty, Albarn. Didn't even bother trying to dodge this time."

"I wasn't exactly expecting to get piledrived!" Maka huffs. "You play dirty! You know I'm not used to wearing heels-"

"Excuses are for big baby losers like yourself," he announces and then sits back, releasing her hands. Something about his monster dong (his words, not hers) concealed shrewdly in bright-yellow spandex and her spread legs sets her off, and Maka, in an impressive show of flexibility, wedges her leg out from his cage of limbs and pulls her knee back to nearly her shoulder. "Ah-!"

And while he is distracted by such simple things as girl legs and bare skin, Maka presses her heel to his chest and kicks him back. He yelps as he tumbles back, ass-first into the gravel of the walkway, and Patty doesn't bother muting her laughter as Maka accepts Eruka's offered hand and jumps back to her feet.

Blake goggles at her. Primly, Maka combs her fingers through her pigtail, muttering, "Seems like someone's still got a few weaknesses to sort out," all the while grinning victoriously. He blubbers for a moment, grappling for his ego, and Maka goes in for the kill. "Maybe you should try stretching some more."

He scowls. "Not fair! You don't have junk in the way!"

Kim rolls her eyes and proceeds to dust stray grass off of Maka's bum. "Pfft," she scoffs, as Maka jumps, unprepared for hands on her ass without preamble. "You're not that big, Starboy."

"My godliness is MASSIVE."

Only Blake would want to be known for a Monster Dong. Realistically, Maka doesn't understand the obsession with penis size; the average vagina isn't that deep, and what're the benefits of having a larger cock vs a smaller one if most of it goes to waste anyway? Is there something she's missing? Because sure, she's a virgin, and she doesn't typically seek out porn, but Blake has no qualms about walking around without pants, and she's seen the vintage porn magazines hidden crudely beneath Soul's mattress, so she's seen a penis or two in her time. She's inexperienced, not stupid.

Maka likes to think she's a pretty smart girl. A good head on her shoulders. A head that can't quite wrap itself around why stupid boys and their pride are so caught up in things like how large their penis is.

Liz is right; masculinity is so fragile. Like there are any real benefits to having more length than necessary. Teenage boys are so immature and Maka's so over it.

So she scrunches up her face. Really thinks on it. Wonders, for about half of a second, if she can ever remember Soul bragging about his size. Maybe once, when he was fourteen, but that had been a phase of his, where every annoying stereotypically boy thing seemed to be fair game. Comments about her underdeveloped figure come to mind, too, but he'd dropped that well into Sophomore year of high school after she'd finally snapped and started crying over it. Come to think of it, he stopped doing a lot of things other boys his age continued with right about then. Stopped pulling her hair so much, too, and kept his bullying to things he knew weren't sore spots.

Soul doesn't brag about his penis. But then, Soul doesn't really brag about much of anything these days. He just stays kind of quiet, lurks in the back of groups, stuffs his hands into his pockets when he's not stoned. And even when he's stoned he's still checked out of conversation - but at least then his expression is a little looser, a little less serious, less tense.

Blake, though. Blake's a whole nother story. He pelvic thrusts at Tsubaki and she shakes her head and clicks her tongue at such antics.

"They call it the Devastator for a reason," Blake says, motioning crudely to his groin. "Boo yeah!"

Maka thinks she could go on life happily without having her private parts ever devastated, thanks. She smoothes down the her skirt from riding up her thighs and shakes her head, sighing. "I feel bad for whoever they are."

His brows keep doing that stupid wiggling thing. It's like they're gonna fly right off of his face. "They had a good time. Little Star always delivers the finishing blow, pigtails."

"That sounds more like a wrestling move than a sex thing," she says quietly. Kim snorts at that. "It definitely doesn't sound like a pleasant sex thing, anyway. I don't want to be blown."

"That's cuz you don't have a cock," Blake says, cackling. He worms his way into their numbers and slings a sweaty arm around her shoulder, furthermore upsetting the girl power gods by infiltrating such sacred alignment with his gross boy smell. "Lemme tell you, young grasshopper - getting blown is a good time. I know a widdle baby virgin like you wouldn't understand, but-"

She pinches his forearm. He flinches. "That has nothing to do with it! I still know how things work!"

"Aw," he condescends.

"I know a heck of a lot more about the female orgasm than you do." Because all she can imagine is Blake, inserting body part a into body part b, thrusting until his own completion and assuming that's it, that's the ballgame, he's done and can go to sleep now. It's distressing. Discouraging. Makes her pity whoever it is he's been sleeping with, apparently. It definitely has her wondering why they've been lying to him about having their world rocked. "If it's too big, it won't fit."

Commence waggling again. He just won't stop. Maka sort of wants to pluck each irritating blue hair from his face and see how he likes having such caterpillars removed from his face. At least that way it'll be harder for him to broadcast such blatant perversion. "Giggity."

"No!" she stresses, jabbing her elbow into his side. "Not giggity! It's- ugh, never mind. You're impossible."

"Heh."

That wasn't even remotely sexual! At least… she hadn't thought it was an innuendo. Blake probably makes half of his crude humor up in his gross, depraved little brain anyway. The boy could take just about anything and turn it into a dick joke, ew.

The whole interaction is a waste of time. Maka has bigger fish to fry and bigger boys to psychoanalyze anyway; Blake's tactless pelvic thrusting can wait. Or, er, she can have faith in the general population to not let any boy who deems himself Black*Star, wrestling God, to penetrate them. Besides, it's not like he's particularly attractive with a construction paper mustache taped to his upper lip, even if the spandex hugs his muscles in debatably flattering ways.

Whatever. It's not her business, anyway. Certainly not her responsibility. "Where's Soul?"

Blake doesn't even bother hiding his humor. Wears it right on his face, big, dumb smile and all. "What, he's not here humping your leg like usual?"

That's an innuendo she understands. "Blake!"

"Not my name, pigtails."

With a spectacular sigh, she says, "Black*Star," and his expression relents, nodding in approval, beefy forearms crossing over his nearly-bare chest. "Where is Soul? I need to talk to him."

"Inside somewhere. Last I saw him he was waiting for the bathroom. Asshole probably drank too much too fast and now he needs to piss it out."

Fat chance. Soul and parties go together like water and gasoline. At least she knows he's still here somewhere - Soul's sneaky when he's uncomfortable or out of his element, but he'd still certainly let his best bro know before ditching. Bros before… whatever, anyway. The bro code is still a mystery to her.

"Tell 'em to put a sock on it!"

Her face burns as she shoves him off of her and marches her way around Aunt Nygus's roses. She might as well dig herself a hole and become one with the flowers, because she's certainly red enough to blend in. "Not going to happen!"

"Safe sex! Safe dookie!"

He's an idiot. She's more than a little satisfied when she hears someone - presumably Kim - slap him upside the head and his resulting grunt.

.

The promised pizza has already been ravaged.

Maka's only a little bit disappointed. After all, how could she expect anything else? Aside from lewd comments and crude jokes, Blake Barrett is nothing more than a walking, beefy mass of stomach. And pizza is just one of those drunk foods that he will go ham on - and judging by the bottles of alcohol lining the coffee table and the white-and-blue waxy cups scattered on every available flat surface, drinking is a thing that is happening in spades.

It sort of explains Kilik Rung dancing on the table with a lampshade on his head. Sort of. It's still weird, and Maka tries hard not to bring attention to herself, should she be summoned to join in the festivities. Not that dancing is a bad idea, really - Kilik is a nice guy, a good big brother, and Maka babysits his kid siblings every other weekend, but she is still a girl on a mission. He lacks a certain deep-set scowl and lazy grace she seeks.

Besides, dancing on a table without the rest of her girls would probably be out of character. She's in costume, after all. And Maka Albarn doesn't half ass anything. It's pure Girl Power that keeps her moving her way down the crowded hall, past couples grinding on each other and the groups of girls lining up by the bathroom door.

One of said girls is Liz, lounging lazily against the wall, cigarette perched between her fingers. The smoke curls through the air just as apathetically, a loose, limp spiral that fades into the dimmed light of the hall as she takes another drag.

Maka's blood runs hot. Liz gives an amused tilt of her head as she flicks her cig. "Legs."

She has two, and they're both kind of doing this wobbly-nervous jelly-kneed thing that pisses her off. She's never been a particularly skittish girl, not even close - Maka's more famous for her stubborn tenacity than fluttering, nervous heartbeat - but there's just something about the way Liz gives her an obvious once over that has her on edge. Like there's a butterfly, fluttering rapidly in her chest, struggling to break free, ready to spread its wings and truly fly. Like the change on the horizon is finally about to take way.

And Liz knows something. Something Maka definitely does not. Those blue eyes are much too sharp to be ever mistaken as clueless.

"Yeah," Maka says, staring nearly unblinkingly. Bravery is the courage to fight through fear, and that's something she definitely has in spades. "I did what you said. Where is he?"

Her dark lips quick into a smile. The burgundy leaves a stain along the white rim of the cigarette, but Liz pays no attention to such an inane detail. No, she's got her sights set on Maka. Tonight, Maka is caught in Liz Thompson's resourceful web.

At least she's in good hands. But first things first, there are still things Maka needs set straight. Things like Soul's lips and whether or not Liz has sampled such fabled, off-limits nirvana.

"I think he crashed in Blake's old man's room," Liz replies finally, reaching over to smudge out the butt in her makeshift ashtray. "The party finally got to him. Too much stimulation, probably. Lots of people screaming and drinking. Never really been his scene, you know?"

"That sounds like Soul," Maka sighs. When Liz makes no effort to say more, she takes matters into her own hands. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"It's… kind of personal," Maka admits, as an afterthought; Liz's tongue down Soul's throat comes to mind, and she really wishes Patty hadn't painted that particular mental image quite so clearly. Though really, when it comes down to it, all Patty really had to do was mention Soul and Liz in the same sentence and Maka's overactive, insecure little imagination could have filled in the rest. Giving any of her doubts fodder on which to feed is usually a one-way path to a lengthy AIM mood message.

Still, though, Liz remains undeterred. Maka sort of envies it, for a moment. What is it like to be able to keep your shit relatively together - and without a blatant tell, at that? Maybe Maka's just doomed to constantly wear her heart on her sleeve. Perhaps it is the role she's meant to play.

"Shoot," Liz repeats.

"... Right here? Around everyone?"

Shrugging, Liz says, "How personal can it be? I told you Soul's turn ons in the middle of a department store, Maka. Fair's fair."

Her face may never retain its normal temperature again. Christ, and here she is, bare legs on blatant display, donning knee-high, sleek boots and all. It's as embarrassing as it is exciting, and Maka elects to ignore the way her blood pulses and runs hot, the way it probably makes her face glow pink. Soul's turn ons, that's just - can short skirts be considered a turn on, or is that just basic boy language? Isn't it sort of a common thing?

Whatever. Might as well spit it out, since Liz seems quite keen on staying right where she is, leaning back against that very wall as if it is her god-given duty.

Maka swallows thickly. Now or never, she supposes. Here goes nothing. "Are you dating him?"

To her surprise, Liz actually snorts, quirking an amused brow at the very question that has haunted Maka for months. "Is that what you think is going on?"

"... You're always with him," she says bluntly, while shifting her weight. Having such a conversation in a busy, crowded hallway is difficult, and Harvar definitely just accidentally brushed his knuckles against her ass on his way past. "-! And you're- you're in his room, all of the time, and you're so chummy with him-"

"Chummy," Liz repeats, then laughs a little. "You're the one that's, like, real chummy with him. Every other word out of his mouth is 'Maka this' or 'Maka that'."

"I'm his friend."

Liz's stare is razor sharp. "Babe, he wants to be a little more than friends with you."

Impossible. She is Maka, neighbor and listener of terrible pop music. Maka, who helps him with his homework and plucks cigarettes from his lips and tries to boss him around because she knows best - certainly not girlfriend material, no matter how desperately she wants to be otherwise. She can't ever remember Soul looking at her like she was anything but just Maka in overalls, silly Maka hugging her pillow to her chest as she watches Sailor Moon reruns, tying her hair up in twintails and lining her arms with jelly bracelets.

She is not sexy. She doesn't even look mature. He has told her such, albeit while they were both thirteen and brats. Still, the sentiment remains, and boy, does it haunt her.

So she scrunches up her face and then melts into a pout. "Does not."

"Girl," Liz sighs.

"He doesn't! He- I know you've kissed him, Liz."

She at least has the grace to look guilty about that. "... I mean-"

"Liz."

"I've hit that, fine, okay?" Liz holds up her hands in surrender. "But we were both a little stoned and everything gets weird and philosophical for him when he's been smoking. He said he didn't really think he was attracted to women much, but he'd never really, you know, been able to test his theories, and I was there and not about to tell him to go bang some random chick, so I offered. It was purely for science."

"You had sex with Soul for science?!"

Liz winces and presses a finger to her lips. Whoops, Maka hadn't know her voice could go that high. Definitely hadn't intended to squeak it out, either. "And he's not bad to look at, you know? He's sort of easy on the eyes."

For Maka, easy on the eyes isn't even the half of it. Whatever. There are still things worth discussing here, important things, like Soul's attraction towards women. "N-Never mind that- is he, you know… into girls?'

At that, Liz shrugs again, melts back against the wall. Beside her, Jackie sips her drink, wearily eyeing the two of them. "I didn't do it for him, supposedly," Liz admits, "but he's not into dudes, either, if that's what you're thinking. He's real tight, you know? Picky, or… something. Said something about only certain people could get his engines really running."

Certain people. Christ, she's running hot. "A-and-"

"Or person," Liz says, grinning again, before stealing Jackie's cup and taking a long, dramatic sip. She points at Maka, one finger curling from the plastic rim of the cup. "Like you."

"Me?"

"Duh! He never takes his eyes off you. Follows you around the room like a hawk. He brightens up whenever you walk in," she says, and Maka can practically hear her own heartbeat, slamming in her ears. Doesn't she feel silly now. Suddenly, it's a lot less mortifying to be standing before Liz in such a costume. Suddenly, Liz's jabbing, crude suggestions feel a lot more like a set up.

Fool. Maka Albarn is such a fool.

"It's cute," Liz says, finally, nodding. "And gross. Mostly gross. But like you said, we're close, and after everything, I think he deserves to be happy. Bad sex really puts a damper on things. Dude was really discouraged for a while. Said something about feeling broken, and then you happened."

She can relate. Boys had been so gross and disappointing for so long, but somehow Soul had grown on her, and now all she can think about his holding his stupid hand and kissing his face and other discouraging things that Maka had thought she was immune to. But noooooo, stupid Soul and his stupid soft hands and stupid warm smiles that make her want to melt.

There's just one more thing, though, that's keeping her from marching down that hall, shoving stupid drunk boys aside and planting one right on Soul's dopey lips. And that thing is staring right at her, eyeliner impeccable and dark.

"Do you like him, though?"

Liz chokes on her drink. Spits it back out, not so daintily, back into her cup. "What?"

"Did you like it? You know… sleeping with him."

There's a peculiar quirk in her smile. It's almost illegible. "Soul didn't really do it for me either."

Sissy likes someone else, Patty had said. Maka blinks twice before the steel returns to her bones and she stands tall, strong and sure. When Liz tilts her head and gives her a look, Maka turns, shoves a thumb over her shoulder, pointing vaguely in the direction of the rest of the Spice Girls. "Posh is that way."

The resulting sputter is validating.

.

Predictably, she does find him holed up in Sid and Nygus' bedroom, flopped down, tummy-first on the floor like a toddler.

What is a little more surprising is the itty bitty weiner dog, dressed up in a hot dog bun costume, sitting curled up on his back and napping quietly. It's adorable, and certainly like she's walked into a separate dimension, one quieter and more contained. Like a closed-off space, one just for anxious, introverted Soul and this mysterious puppy to exist without worry.

It's adorable. Heartwarming. And Maka sort of wants to cradle the both of them to her chest and join in their sleepy, lazy shenanigans.

She shuts the door quietly behind her and mutes the sound of screaming and loud music. Soul cracks, barely, peeking up at her from over the edge of his Gameboy. He blinks slowly, as if learning her silhouette in the muted light, and Maka only manages a half-wave before he's giving her that handsome half-smile, dimple and all.

Stupid pretty boy. How dare he melt her heart so quickly.

"Hey," she whispers, padding her way over.

Soul's eyes follow the length of her legs. She feels naked before him, even though she's definitely got on a pink mini dress and knee high boots. It's just a lot of thigh on display, and from what she's been told from Liz, apparently bare thighs are the way to go when it comes to Soul.

So maybe she is a little naked. Both emotionally and physically. Maka always did wear her heart on her sleeve, after all. When Soul finally tears his eyes away from her bare legs and hits her face, his brows crinkle.

"Hey," he whispers back, careful to not move too suddenly and wake the puppy on his back. "You 'aight?"

She lowers herself daintily, sitting carefully while wearing such a short dress. She lets her hands rest in her lap, mostly to hold down the fabric blocking his dulled vision from her unmentionables. Not that she thinks he would stare, should he get a sneak peak. She's changed in his bedroom hundreds of times, to various stages of undress, and he's never once peeked from between the cracks of his fingers.

It's more for her own state of mind. And it's somewhere to put her hands that isn't right on his face, that isn't her, crawling her way over to tuck herself beneath his arm and fall into his easy-going lull. Cuddling should never be quite so seductive.

Maka shrugs, tugging at the hem of her skirt. "I'm fine," she answers, mostly honest. "Are you doing alright in here?"

He doesn't buy it for a second, though, and keeps his eyes on her, burning warm as he plops his Gameboy facedown onto the carpet. He squirms, just a little, enough to pillow his arms over each other and form a suitable chin-rest for himself, so that he may continue watching her without straining his neck. Pup on his back doesn't even fuss a little; well, Maka thinks, eyes drifting over his shoulder like the little traitors they are, his back (and shoulders, hmm) is certainly broad enough to make a suitable resting place. What a cute bed for a baby weiner dog.

Where did he even find a weiner dog? Who brought their puppy to Blake Barrett's house party and then left it unattended long enough for Soul to corral it into his antisocial naptime?

So many questions, so little time. Soul nods, then licks his lips. "It's noisy out there. Not my scene."

"Then why'd you come? It's not like you bothered with a costume-"

"Hey," he huffs, pouting. "I'm Kurt Cobain. Duh."

If Soul thinks putting on a grubby flannel shirt and 'forgetting' to brush his hair means putting on a costume, he's mistaken. It doesn't work that way when it's his everyday apparel. He looks exactly the same as he does any other day, except maybe with a bit more eyeliner. Compliments of Liz, she suspects. Soul has a steady hand, what with all the piano playing he's had forced upon him, but there's a certain raccoon-like appeal to his eye makeup that has her suspecting this is his best gal pal's handiwork.

She can't stifle the giggles. Soul pouts further. "What?"

"You wear that like… every day! That's so not a costume," she says, grinning.

His nose does the cutest little scrunching thing. "I parted my hair differently."

"Okay."

"He dresses like this."

"That's not the point, Soul," she says, shaking her head. He's really something. Why do people think she's the stubborn one again? "You also dress like this. Like, all the time, dummy."

He quirks a pale brow at her. Scrunches up his nose again defensively. "So? You dress like that all the time, too."

"That's so not the point!" she squeaks. She does not! Not exactly, anyway. Maka favors boots, sure, but more of the asskicking variety. Not the knee-high, sexy leg-hugging flavor. And yeah, she wears skirts from time to time, and yeah, wearing a bra is kind of stupid when she doesn't really need any extra support, but this is actually an iconic costume, dammit!

Soul Evans is full of shit. And she hates his stupid shit-eating grin just as much as she wants to kiss it off his face.

"Shhhhh," he shushes, "Baby's sleeping."

"Baby is right here and she's not sleeping," Maka says, affronted. "Hello? Baby Spice?"

"Not you," he grunts, though even in the dark, she can still make out his rosy cheeks. "Dog. On my back. Let 'er rest, guess she doesn't like crowds much either and found me about an hour ago. We're companions, now."

It's probably a sign, Maka thinks, that so many small animals flock to him. Blair, mystery weenie - he is a friend, despite his growling, shaggy appearance, and even puppies and kitties can tell. It sort of warms her heart. Definitely reinforces her assumption that Soul is not all hard edges and angst, not really - underneath that devil-may-care bravado and collection of flannel and boots, he's a softie, a lover, he who pets animals gently and smiles at her late at night and plays with her hair.

His hair looks so soft. Like a murky little cloud, plopped right atop of his head. He could certainly use a haircut, she thinks, but it might draw away from the image he's going for. Besides, with a clean cut, how could Soul ever hide behind his hair when the situation becomes too much for him? With short hair, how could Maka run her fingers through it? How could he ever nap on her lap again, without routine, their routine?

It's just who they are and what they do. And to think, all this time, he's been keeping such a magical little secret from her. Clueless, apparently, to the secret she's been keeping. To say she feels foolish is an understatement; she's been pining after this boy for as long as she can remember and he's been doing the same and somehow - somehow, they hadn't been able to figure it out.

Until now. Until Liz, who has done things with Soul and has come out unbothered. Like it was nothing to her. The thought still makes her burn, makes Maka simmer and squirm and hold her hands tighter in her lap in silent envy and rage. Kissing him would never be a mistake. Being intimate with Soul - someone who is so inherently private, and insecure, and thoughtful - could never be a test for her. Never an experiment.

No, Maka would mean it. Sure as shit, serious as a heart attack. He might be the only boy she'd ever consider letting see her so vulnerable. Soul, who pets animals gently and complains and slept with Liz - long legged, blonde haired knockout - without feeling anything.

She could cry. Stupid Soul. He could have just told her himself. Heck, he could've just asked her instead.

"You slept with Liz."

Perhaps it was not the best time to drop that bomb. Oops. Tactless Maka. Well, too late now. It's out in the open, nothing she can do about it. He knows she knows.

Soul burns brighter and his shoulders go taut. "What," he grunts, and his voice actually cracks. The puppy on his back squirms, whining cutely, and Soul doesn't take his eyes off of Maka for a second. His fingers begin tapping, and he's beginning to reach up and scrub at his pale head of hair as he blurts, "What did you-"

"She told me," she cuts in, leaning over on her hands to gently grasp his wrist. "When?"

"That's- we didn't- I was-"

"You're always high, Soul. I know."

He's not right now, though. The clarity in his eyes is astounding, dark wine tension brewing, coiling and coiling as he bites his lip. To be the one causing that tense little furrow in his brow breaks her heart, but - but this has to be done, like ripping off a bandaid. For the greater good. For her future.

Their future.

Burn, burn, burn. It's all she can do around him. His pulse beneath her fingers is pulsing, a hummingbird's heartbeat, rapidly fluttering. He's so nervous.

He blinks rapidly. Stares at her. "It wasn't anything. Maka, it didn't- I was just… we were just… 'm not into her like that."

Clearly, her lack of a reaction is telling. When she doesn't automatically resort to scolding him, or squinting at him in disbelief, Soul clues in pretty easily. He begins sitting back, and when Maka hears the pitter-patter of puppy feet on the floor, Soul's already verticle and looming tall, slouched shoulders and all.

"... You knew that."

Maka nods. Squeezes his wrist in her hand.

"How?"

Honesty is the best policy. And besides, Maka is tired of hiding behind half-truths, dancing around the fear of change, their upcoming graduation and introduction to adulthood. Just for tonight, she wants to be a bit reckless. Wants to live a little, as Blake would say. More than anything else, though, she wants to free herself of the weight, sitting heavy on her chest. What will taking her crush to college with her do? What will pretending to not love him do for her in what little time they have left?

So she swallows thickly and puts on her brave face. Rubs her thumb along the delicate skin of Soul's inner wrist and says, "Liz told me."

He swallows, too. With his pulse fluttering beneath her, he's helpless. Caught in her web. Such power should never fall into her hands; she's a bossy know-it-all, as he would say, and a studious, workaholic bookworm at that. She just has to know the truth. Has to know he knows her truth, too.

"She did, did she," he mumbles. When her grasp loosens, he wiggles his hand down and laces his fingers between hers. Christ, never mind - now she's caught, too. "What else did that big mouth tell you?"

"Everything," she says, because it's the truth, she thinks. Enough, anyway. Enough to know they've both been acting like lovesick, thickheaded fools for months and apparently everyone can see it.

"Everything," Soul repeats dryly.

His palm is a little clammy. No matter. She'd love him, no matter the shape, no matter the size or texture. "She told me you like short skirts."

To be on the other side of such realization is a little funny. Maka wonders if this is what she had looked like, only half an hour prior - that dawn in his eyes, blunt, open expression. And then he burns again, hot, just like her, and scarlet has never looked quite so kissable before. "Is that why you're not Sporty Spice?"

He's certainly not the only one with rosy cheeks. She feels fourteen - or like what fourteen was supposed to feel like, anyway. Blushing cheeks and nervous butterflies in her tummy and a boy's hand, warm in her own. Nothing has ever felt quite so sweet and terrifying, all at once.

"I was advised to take your hints to heart."

"They weren't-" he sputters for a moment, reaching his free hand back to rub his neck nervously. "I didn't mean it like that, just-"

"Does it look okay?"

Do you like it? she wants to say, but the words won't come out. It's silly, feeling tongue tied around him, when she knows they're both racing towards the same damn goal. The feeling is mutual, and Soul's blown-open expression is twice the confirmation Liz's not-so-subtle hints had been. Even more than that, his fingers tighten around hers, tugs her over to rest their clasped hands on his knee. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand and her heart leaps into her throat, effectively rendering her tongue useless.

I want you to like it. I want you to like me.

He offers her a crooked grin. "You look like yourself, Maka."

"It's-- you said I should dress like Baby Spice, so I did!" she says, huffing, with puffed cheeks and her tongue vitalized. He's so full of it sometimes! "If you were just making fun of me, Soul, I swear to God-"

"Maka," he snorts, then irons out his expression at her resulting squeeze of his hand. It's a warning, for sure, and he must know better than to play with fire, lest he get burned. "Didn't say I didn't like it," he adds quietly, once she's settled down and her hand lies docile in his again. "You're… cute."

Cute. His stare says more. He hasn't been able to look away from her since she walked in, hasn't been able to stop stealing glances at her naked knees, the way her bare thighs press together as she sits. For the first time in her life, Maka feels attractive - like actually, for real pleasing, in ways she hadn't thought she could. And weirdly, she's okay with baring this much skin, okay with being ogled a little if just because it's Soul, and he's the only guy she's ever wanted to impress, anyway. He's the only boy she ever wants to stare at the freckles ghosting across her hemline. Anyone else would be uncomfortable - anyone else would earn themselves a swift punch to the nose for ever daring to look at her in such a way.

It's empowering, almost. Makes her feel like she's years older than just merely seventeen, like she's not a teen teetering on the brink of such a transition. It puts the power back into her hands. She can make Soul feel this way. She can make his brows loose and his tongue dry and not anyone else. Not any boy, not any other girl - not Liz.

It's what finally drives her to make the first move. God knows Soul will never rock the boat. He is always careful, despite his appearances and bravado, always meticulous and considerate and afraid, especially, of cause and effect. But for now, Maka is not. For the next few months, Maka is not. She is in charge of her own future.

She only drops his hands to grab his stupid baggy flannel and pull him to her. He might be a cool guy, but his lips are warmer than anything else, and molding her palms to his jaw and cradling his face in her hands is all she can do to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest. For a moment, he's tense, squawking not-so-cooly as her nose bumps his - but then his hands are shyly, tentatively sliding to hold her waist and there's nowhere else in the world Maka would rather be. His Gameboy keeps looping through the same 8bit tune, and it's not exactly the most romantic background noise for her first kiss, but it's sure better than whatever it is Blake has blasting down the hall, or the legion of teenagers screaming "chug, chug, chug!", so Maka focuses on it.

Well, that and Soul's lips, which are soft and tender and hiding such an exciting little secret. He cracks open so delightfully, and then Maka's running her tongue over each sharp peak of his teeth, and about three months worth of dreams have finally been realized.

The only thing more exciting is his tongue. Which, ah, she hadn't been expecting; pre-teen Maka had always thought tongue kissing would be wet and weird and gross. And it is wet, and certainly weird, and with anyone else it would probably be gross - but this is Soul, and his fingers dig so possessively into her waist as he finally finds his nerve and slants his mouth over hers, and she could never find him gross. It's good, in the strangest way. A rolling, burning heat, that starts low in her tummy and sinks impossibly far, and suddenly even this mini dress is too much.

It's only a crack of light and alien gasp that tears her away from him. Because yeah, okay, so she's liked Soul for a long time, and has thought about his mouth a little too often for her to admit aloud, but even she can see the strangeness in walking in on Baby Spice and Kurt Cobain swapping spit. And poor Tsubaki is the witness to such sin.

Maka freezes. Soul's face burns warm beneath her hands. Sputtering, she says with a start, "Tsu-!"

"Occupied," Liz says from somewhere, and Maka watches fingers adorned with black, chipped nails link their way through Posh Spice's. "Let 'em be. There are other rooms."

She should be embarrassed. Should also probably think about apologizing to Tsubaki for such an uncomfortable way to discover Maka's newest (and first) boyfriend. Also should perhaps think about inquiring further on why, exactly, she is seeking an empty room with Liz of all people, but all Maka can think about instead is maybe making Liz a thank you bracelet and pushing Soul down to the floor.

Bracelet making can wait, though. Soul doesn't even whine when she takes charge and the back of his shoulders hit the carpet, just takes it with a crooked grin and his hands smoothing up the backs of her bare thighs.

And Maka likes such blatant ease in his eyes. She likes it a lot.