1998

.

"I'll trade you my Cloyster for your holographic Charizard," Blake barters.

From over the edge of her textbook, she watches Soul's nose wrinkle up adorably. Not for the first time, she thinks about how cute he is when he does just about anything - but when he's confused, especially, because there's a kissable quirk in his brow and Maka has to burn her focus back onto her studies. Still, it's impossible not to overhear their conversation, and Soul's resulting chuff is just as amusing as it is interesting.

"What," he ends up blurting after, scratching his head. "Why in the world would I trade my holographic Charizard for a damn Cloyster?"

Blake leans forward and - dammit all, she's definitely watching through her peripherals - grins maddeningly. Soul jerks back, and Maka's forced to assume Blake has mystery meat breath, or something akin. Stifling her laugh, she burrows further into Soul's shoulder, glueing her stare back onto her Calc textbook.

For his part, he relents, allowing her to lean her weight on him with nothing more than an airy, melodramatic sigh and an arm slung around her shoulder.

"Eugh." Blake makes a crude, fake-gagging noise and slides his Cloyster back across the table. "Cuz of that. You two are gross, you know that?"

"You literally sucked face with Kim all through Study Hall last year," Soul says, very dryly.

Maka can't stop herself from snorting at that, and Soul squirms, only to rest his hand comfortably on the curve of her waist. He's never pushy with his affections, but touchy, still, and soon the cool skin of his palm is worming its way beneath her stolen flannel and pressing flat to her hip. It's done offhandedly, carelessly, as if it's nothing, but she can still feel his body heat practically glowing next to her, and pink colors down the back of his neck, beneath the shaggy weight of his hair.

Well, it is December. And she is wearing his clothes, albeit shoddily. His arms are longer than hers, so the flannel has to be rolled up at least twice in order for Maka to retain use of her hands, but still - she can allow some casual PDA, if under the premise of shared body heat. It's not like she enjoys the feeling of his bare skin on hers or anything. Not like it sparks watercolor over the pale canvas of her cheeks at all.

Hopeless. She's hopeless, and his index finger has begun rubbing slow, maddening circles into the sensitive skin right above her waistline. It's enough to thaw her attention to nothing, and she feels a bit like melting next to him, panting quietly like a useless dog, unable to keep her hormones in check. They're in public, dammit.

Blake sighs, so very falsely demure. "Well," he says, with great, exasperated meaning, "I just thought you could use one, all things considered."

"A- a Cloyster?"

"Affirmative."

Soul's scowl sets so deep she can feel it rumbling in her bones. Maka flips the page distractedly, numbers blurring together, as his finger rubs away her study drive. Her thighs feel tight, pressed together, and it is sheer, iron-clad willpower that keeps her from hiding her face in his sleeve. To be reduced to a needy, clingy girl so easily - well, her mother would not be proud.

"I don't follow," he says, his thumb now tracing the slight curve of her waist. Maka shivers beneath his touch, nothing more than a puddle of goosebumps and overstimulated teenager.

His blue hair is bright in the sunlight, and his frosted tips could use some touchups. Still, his expression is somehow bolder than his terrible, gel-crusted hair, and he says, "Because you're sure not getting any from her," just as she feels Soul tense up beside her.

That finger's stopped melting her bones, which is both relieving and disappointing, and Soul's hand slides out of her shirt almost defensively as he instead clutches the lunch table with both hands. "Black*Star," he hisses, as icy as he is smoldering; that blush runs so brightly up his neck, well beneath his worn collar, and Maka would give almost anything to peek down the line of his back and see just how far it stretches. "Lay off."

Blue brows waggling a mile a minute, he laughs. "You know you want it," he says, a teasing lilt to his tone, and Soul swats his hands away as one might a pesky fly. "Just look at it."

"Cut it out," Soul growls.

"It's not that rare. Well," Blake says, grin widening, impossibly, "unless you're holding out for that one. Prime rarity, hers is. Never before unwrapped, mint condition, still in the packaging-"

"Blake!"

No amount of Calculus will distract her from such a strange conversation. Her book shuts with a clap on her lap and Soul scowls, leaning forward and going as far as to bare his teeth at Blake like an attack dog. Bewildered, Maka sets her textbook on the table and sits straighter, struggling to see over Soul's shoulder and discover just, exactly, what a Cloyster looks like. "I don't-"

"No," Soul says, still scowling, and traps Blake's card beneath his hand. The corner's a bit worn, but it's all she can see of the card, and she wishes she'd caught that episode of the anime because being clueless is embarrassing and not something that sits well with Maka Albarn, bookworm extraordinaire, she who soaks up information like a sponge and gets obsessively straight A's.

She's a know-it-all at heart. A brainy, determined know-it-all, and being denied such important information really grinds her gears. A whine growls in her throat, and she reaches a hand out to slip the card from beneath Soul's palm. "I just want to see it," she says around a fierce pout and puppy dog eyes.

Blake's grinning face burns her alive, but it's Soul's tight, displeasured tone that really piques her curiosity to new heights. "It's nothing," he grunts passionately, and Maka only strains further to grab ahold of such forbidden context. "He's just being dumb and gross, what else-"

"It's a Pokemon!"

"An innuendo," he grunts, nudging her back gently. Soul shoves the card back into Blake's lap and Maka's never hated her short little arms more than she does now. "A shitty one at that. Whatever."

Her sights set on Blake, instead. What a foolish move on Soul's part. If he thinks Blake will withhold on such apparently hilarious joke material, he's about to be sorely mistaken. Perhaps she knows this blue-haired buffoon better than his best dudefriend does - because if there's anything Maka's sure about, it's that Black*Star will spill the beans if it means getting a good laugh out of it. And judging by the teasing, amused quirk in his brow, he most certainly will. Beyond everything else, Blake values a good laugh. A good, hearty, body-quaking laugh, even if it is at the expense of his best dude.

Because that's just how the cookie crumbles. That is how his strange little brain functions. Jokes first, undying loyalty and muscle-brained ferocity later.

And he proves her right as he flips the card around. "Check it, Albarn," he says conspiratorially, as Soul gapes beside her and reaches out to snatch away the context of his grumpy expression and pink cheeks. Blake leans away, though, holding the Pokemon card out of reach and waving it around like some sort of trophy, and she-

It's… some sort of oyster Pokemon? With a crude, grinning little face in the center of- oh.

"Blake!"

His grin only broadens, and as Maka jumps up to also snatch his disgusting, lewd, inappropriate joke out of his grubby hands, he jumps to stand on his chair and cackle obnoxiously. He's not a particularly tall boy - he's quite short, actually, his larger-than-life presence purely based on the mass of his bulging muscles shifting in his noisy windbreaker - but Maka is just short enough for his makeshift vagina joke to be out of reach. And like the crude little pest he is, Blake actually laughs out loud as she jumps up to challenge him, hands fisted at her sides as Soul glowers between them, supremely uncomfortable with everything in the world.

"Dude can only hold out for so loooong, pigtails," Blake teases, waving the card around all the more as she stomps around. "C'mon, you're no pipsqueak anymore, we can talk about this-"

"I don't want you talking about my private parts," she says, hissing.

He stops waving the card to and fro just to waggle his brows at her instead. His lack of motion only makes the intense blurring of his eyebrows all the more irritating and blatant. "Ooh. So I can't, but someone else can?"

"What."

"Here," he says, snapping his wrist as if throwing a frisbee; the card cuts through the air, bonking Soul directly in the nose. "She doesn't care if it's in your hands, big boy. Or mouth."

He's impossible. Disgusting. Maka tugs on her pigtails and makes a growling sound in the back of her throat, face scalding, and Soul's no better. His scowl is soul-deep by now, perhaps forever etched into the tired lines of his face as he rips the damn card in half without even flinching. It doesn't deter Blake's laughter - in fact, it might provoke it even more - but Soul crumples up the Pokemon confetti regardless and dumps it on the ground.

.

There's no pressure, but Maka feels like time is slipping through her fingers.

Before she knows it, she's eighteen, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake while her parents sit on opposite sides of the table, blatantly avoiding one another's eye. The tension sits thickly within the party, like a heavy, damp pair of jeans, and Maka can barely keep a frown off her face as her mother stands up abruptly and makes her way to the kitchen without a word.

"Plates?" she asks.

No response, but the clattering of silverware on ceramic is telling enough. Maka squirms in her seat, uncomfortably plucking at the string beneath her chin, party hat wobbling atop her head. The whole thing seems so childish now, in retrospect - why bother asking Papa to stay home for her party if he's only going to make things more awkward? Why bother, if he's only going to squint at Soul, as if he's some sort of wanted criminal or something? I'm not you, she wants to say, but can't yet find the words. I haven't given myself away, stop looking at him like that.

She's always so defensive over Soul. Like a mama bear.

Only she's not his mother. Certainly not related to him, if the way they kiss each other hello and goodbye is any evidence. The way he watches her with those warm, concerned eyes makes her blood burn and something tighten in her chest, impossibly caught up in his curious, careful warmth. He offers her a nervous, twitching smile, the corner of his lip quirking only slightly before he raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip.

"Are we going to play pin the tail on the donkey, too?" comes Blake, while dismantling his own pointed party hat. The elastic string has become a weapon, and he's taken to trying to flick Liz's wrist, much to her annoyance. "This is pretty middle school, pigtails."

"Maka's always had parties," Spirit says. It's as if he springs back to life the moment his wife's presence has left the room, like that notable perk and exuberance sparks back, like a firecracker. "Keep complaining and you won't get any cake!"

"Bleh, I don't need cake."

"It's chocolate swirl. The ol' Spirit Special."

Blake winces. Reconsiders his smart tongue. "... On the other hand… maybe this shindig isn't so buggin' after all."

Well, at least Papa is good for something. Still, Blake kind of has a point - the party hats are cute, and she really sort of likes blowing out candles, but it does feel a little young for her eighteenth birthday. Everyone gathered around the table, circling her like she's a spectacle to behold. What a big girl she is now. So adult, so mature, in her twintails and polka-dot printed cone hat. Even now, she's so saturated in her youth.

Even now, she's still clinging to something that isn't meant to be held. Seventeen's flying out the window, and eighteen already feels dizzying, like the incoming, sure-fire responsibility and maturity makes her sick. In half a year, she'll be living on her own in a dorm room. In half a year, there will be no more Mama and Papa arguing while she tries to sleep, no more passive-aggression at the dinner table.

In half a year, there will be no more Soul.

Change is not simple. Growing up isn't black and white, not a fizzled, smoking candle, blown out from a simple exhale of breath. She is no more adult than she had been merely hours before, a day ago - but without a doubt, she'll be held more accountable for everything, now that she's no longer a minor.

It's weird. Disorienting to think about. Maka decides to pick a candle out of her cake and lick the frosting off of the bottom instead of focusing on it. There are other things to focus on, aside from stressing over her rapidly approaching graduation and the barely-banked inferno that is her parents marriage. Like Soul, for example, and the way his brow hooks while she licks the wax clean of sugary sweetness. Like the way he can't stop watching her mouth, watching the way her tongue peeks out between her lips and drags painstakingly across the bottom edge of the candle.

Maybe what Maka really needs is a little bit of control.

.

The leather of his seat is cool on her bare back. His heat hasn't kicked on yet but the windows are still fogging up, the mere suggestion of it all sending goosebumps up her arching spine.

His car has always felt so secluded. It's just one of their spaces, a closed off, private spot where time seems to freeze. Soul looks particularly timeless in the shadow of the night, darkness casting shadows on his jaw, giving him the illusion of being sharper, more defined, as if he isn't only eighteen, but instead twenty-something - a man. Like he doesn't struggle with both adolescent demons and very adult fears. As if there isn't a furby locked in his closet, just because it gives him the heebie-jeebies.

Even with the nearly flammatory spark between them, Maka still feels a chill run up her spine. Silly, because Soul's skin is hot to the touch, and she's quite sure he'll burn her with his tongue if they're not careful. But she is nearly topless, all things considered, and her soft cotton bra isn't exactly winter wear. Goosebumps spread like wildfire

"Christ," he swears quietly, running a delicate hand along the curve of her waist. His thumb caresses gently, dipping ticklishly over her navel, along the dip of her hip bones, right along the hem of her jeans, where the lace trim of her panties peeks out.

Such fine-brewed torture should be illegal. He touches her with such gentle, reverent grace that it nearly chokes her up. Her slouchy grunge head, who blasts his music too loud and smokes like a chimney and shuts down in the face of confrontation touches her like she's fine china. It's stupid - she's not fragile, not something that will shatter in his hands should he hold her too tightly, but the sentimentality of it makes her stupid, too. Maybe they're destined to be together, two merry, love-drunk fools, unable to fully grasp the magnitude of their feelings in such young, clumsy hands.

Perhaps it's why she can't stop shaking. Why she feels like her stomach is throbbing in her throat, too. It can't be because she doesn't want this, because there's nowhere else in the world she would rather be than right here with him, finally taking this huge, crucial step.

His thumbnail catches on a loose thread, unraveling the dainty elastic of her undies. He mumbles something - an apology, maybe? - and then, cautiously, with soft eyes monitoring her, presses his lips to her bare skin.

Forget her stomach. Her entire heart's clogged up in her throat now, and breathing is not as intuitive as it should be. Maka sucks up all of the heady, molten air into her lungs and tries to breathe courage, but somewhere in the middle it gets lost in translation, and she just ends up shivering beneath him.

"Ah." Soul peeks up at her through his hair - messy, long hair, and if her hands would stop shaking, she'd brush it from his eyes - and bites his lip. "Is this okay?"

It should be. They've been dating for months. She's loved him - loved him, so much that it's hard for her to put into words - for years, and she's known him for longer. He is all of the spaces in between, the dark curtains across the way, the solemn withdrawn melody that trickles like raindrops on her windowsill. This is Soul, and Maka can't understand why she can't just brave her way through something as silly as losing her damn virginity.

"Yes," she says, pushing her fingers through his hair to keep them occupied. At his raised brow, she breathes through her nose and swallows her thundering heart.

"Because it's okay if it's not," Soul adds hastily, eyes flickering from the dainty hem of her panties to her bitten lip, unsure. "We don't have to do this."

But she does. She does, because she is not afraid of anything. Not failure, not college, not moving out or growing up - and more than anything else, Maka is not afraid of becoming her parents. She is Maka first and Albarn second, and she can idealize the good without subjecting herself to the bad, too.

"It's fine," she grits out.

Soul's breath is warm on her tummy. "That's not exactly reassuring."

"Soul."

"We don't have to do this," he says again, like a damn broken record; his playlist shifts songs, this one more mellow in tone, lazy beats that melt her bones and make the butterflies in her stomach swell up like balloons, ready to burst at any given moment. "We can-"

"No!" she gasps, sitting up and grabbing his wrists as he attempts to lean back. "No, we can do this. I can do this."

"In the back seat of my car?" he asks, caught somewhere in between a self-depreciating snort and a cringe. His palms sit warmly on her bare knees, cupping themselves there, calloused thumbs rubbing the tender skin of her thighs apologetically. "Cuz this isn't exactly the, uh, ideal place for your first time, ya know, and if you're nervous-"

"I'm not nervous!"

Her voice cracks and that's all the answer Soul needs.

His expression softens, somehow, the burning wine in his eyes crackling down to glowing embers. There's that nervous, hesitant quirk in his smile, the crooked way one side of his lips lifts just so. The way he sits there, with gentle hands still pressed chastely to her knees, hair tangled, discarded flannel pooled between them, looking tired and concerned - she's been here a thousand times in her dreams, has kissed those hesitant lips and held his face in her hands while facing such juvenile fears like rejection and loss without half the jittery unease incapacitating her. It might be Soul's backseat, but she is still in control here. She is still the one who calls the shots, who has gotten the both of them undressed thus far, who has left that delightful, blooming hickey on his neck.

He finds her hands, instead, and holds them there between the two of them. His flannel scratches the backs of her fingers. "It's your birthday, you know, and not mine. I don't need anything. 'S not really much of a gift if you're not really feelin' it, Maka."

The way he smiles at her breaks her heart. "I love you," she says, urgently, squeezing his hands in hers. "It's not- I want this, it's just-"

Pink, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. The way he peeks at her through dark, half-lidded eyes strokes the fire within that confuses her so; how is it possible to live through such conflicting urges?

She wants him, goodness, does she want him - not a moment goes by where she doesn't think about his mouth, or the way his sleek hipbones peek out from above the hem of his jeans, or about that distinct, arousing hardness she'd felt in his lap - and yet, even now, there's still something restraining her, something pulling her back, like puppet strings, dangling her through center stage.

It's frustrating. It chokes her up, and Maka sniffles angrily. "... I don't know."

He doesn't say anything, just cradles her hands on his knees instead. His playlist moves on, filling the void where their tangled, trembling hearts had just nearly been intertwined, when her legs had been laced around his hips and his mouth on hers. It's some murky acoustic number now, nearly drowned out by seductive, thrumming basslines.

Finally, though, he does crack, like a hard candy and ah, there's that gooey center. He squeezes her hands in his and asks, "Nervous?"

Maka swallows. Nods her head after a beat, staring pointedly at her knees.

"... Scared?"

Not scared of anything, she thinks stubbornly. Not Soul, never Soul, but she finds herself nodding mindlessly anyway, hating herself, hating the way she can't stop thinking about her parents, even now. Sex hadn't saved their relationship.

All sex had given them was a baby at seventeen. All sex had given her mother was an unfaithful husband-to-be and no home to come back to. To erase such ingrained, conditioned suspicions about premarital sex, and the types of girls who open their legs for sex-hungry teenage boys - who will say whatever it takes to get inside of her - well, it's a hard pill to swallow.

And yet, even so, this is Soul. Soul, who has waited for so very long, even though he'd held the backs of her thighs with such a delightfully possessive dig to his fingers, who can't seem to meet anyone's eye but hers, who tugs on the straps of her overalls and whines about stray cats but still took Blair in all the same. How could there ever be anyone else? How could she ever trust anyone - love anyone - the way she does Soul?

It's impossible. Everything is impossible, and words have never been hard for a bookworm like her, but suddenly her endless supply has run dry. Stupid. Perhaps she should bonk herself in the head with her favorite dictionary, just to remind herself of who she is. In half a year, this will not even be an option anymore. In half a year, she'll be off in a dorm room, studying, and he'll-

She doesn't know where Soul will be. By her side, hopefully? But he had said he didn't plan on going to college… but would he stay here, even then? Would he stay with his parents, unhappy and antsy?

Would he pack up with his band and hit the road? She often wonders if Soul has it in him to fully give in to his music, to submit himself to the creative genius that really makes him tick. To have so much talent - to make so much spark - and have such little faith in his own abilities breaks her heart. No matter how many times she tells him, he never seems to get it. He hears but never understands.

The knot in her chest tightens.

"That's okay," he mumbles, very quietly. "I was- uh, you know. Mm. Yours should be special, huh? Girls want, like, rose petals and sappy, bad music and poems, right? 'Nd this isn't exactly, uh… romantic."

That's right. She might be a fumbling, nervous rookie, but he's done this before. Remembering such is like a slap to the face.

It shouldn't be, though. There's no one but the two of them for miles, parked in the woods, alone in his car. Still, there's still a part of her, no matter how she despises it, that worries she won't be enough. Jealousy is evil, and wrong, and tears apart perfectly good relationships, but it licks at Maka's sore wounds and feels like salt in her veins. Stupid, stupid girl. Insecurity is something teenage girls feel, and she is an adult now, technically. Apparently.

He drops her hands only to reach and cradle her face. Maka's never felt smaller. "Hey," he says, just as gently as before, "hey, it's okay."

Maka can't pinpoint when exactly she started crying, and yet, as the tears roll over her lips, she knows it was never worth fighting. Such a little girl, crying over every little thing that confuses her. Such a pathetic girl, for relying on warm boy hands to lessen the blow. "I'm not- I love you so much it makes me angry," she blurts, blushing now, even through her tears.

Ah, well, at least he pinks at that, too. "Ah…?"

"So much," she squeaks, scrubbing at her own face. "I don't know why I can't just…! I want this. I want you," she breathes, blinking at him through damp lashes, the bloated butterflies burning holes in her chest. "I just don't know how to have you without losing me."

His thumbs press to her cheeks and, oh, she can taste her tears on her lips. His fingers feel wet on her skin, and Soul presses pause on the whole meaningful gaze thing he's got on lockdown to kiss the very tip of her nose. "You won't."

"You don't know that!" she says, sniffling.

"I know you sound like a cheesy ballad right now."

She huffs, swatting at his chest. His bare chest. If she's even half as pink as she feels, he just might burn from being in her orbit. Without his hands on her, it's easier to think, easier to breathe - and Maka scrubs her face clean of tears, inhales deeply and pushes her shoulders back. If she can't look tough baring her midriff (and collarbones, and sternum, oh my!) how can she ever expect to feel it, too?

"Don't be a jerk," she huffs.

His skin is molten, somehow, beneath her palms, despite it being about eleven degrees too cold for her liking outside his car. It distracts her a little. Seems like it distracts him, too, judging by the way his pulse flutters beneath her straying fingers. Are these her hands, cradling around his throat, thumbs pressed precariously to his bobbing Adam's apple?

It shouldn't feel so intimate. She's practically topless. There are more revealing things to focus on than the flutter of Soul's pulse, or the way his throat moves every time he swallows.

"I'm always a jerk," he says. "Thought you knew that."

No boy can be a true jerk when he hands her discarded shirt back with kind hands and averted eyes.

Maka presses the wrinkled cotton to her chest and wishes she was still touching him instead. Wishes she could press her hand over his heart and feel every breath he takes, every rise and fall - mostly, though, she wants to drown in the metronome of his heartbeat. Her heart is a useless hummingbird, caught in the cage of her ribs, strangled birdsong and all.

"I really thought I could do it this time," she mutters, dejected.

Soul gives a shrug. He looks so silly now that he's not leaning over her, just a little too tall to be sitting on his knees; his slouch is passionate, and Maka can't tell if it's part of his look or if his posture really is that terrible. She wants to lock part of him away for herself, for when the distance inevitably splits them and she has nothing else to sing her to sleep at night. It's so selfish, to want to memorize the way he sighs her name as he sinks as deeply as he can within her, to be as humanly close to another person as he possibly can - it's the intimacy she wants. It's the intimacy she craves.

Maka can't decide if nearly half a year of dating is too soon for questions of forever.

Overthinking will get her nowhere. Perhaps Soul thinks so too, because before she can even piece the words together, his hand is atop her head and he's rubbing incessantly, more like a big brother than a shirtless boyfriend who has narrowly been denied sex. Again.

"Stooop, my hair!"

He grins and flicks a stray hair tie at her. "You're gonna lose those hair ties in the cracks between the seats," he teases, sounding far too thrilled with the fact. "Gonna keep them as collateral so you'll have to listen to my music and let me drive you around."

"You did not just suggest a hostage situation."

His resulting cackle does nothing to diminish the chemistry between them. And although she pulls her shirt over her head, and Soul watches her bare abdomen as she tugs the cotton hem down past her belly button, they do not erupt into an insatiable tangle of hormonal, horny teenagers - although she certainly feels like one, as Soul clambers his way into the front seat, watching the way the wiry muscles in his arm flex. He's so noodly, so damn lanky, but he's still more than enough to get her engines revving. The damn guy still hasn't slid back into his flannel, and while his limbs are long and not quite as well built as hers, his pretty expanse of his bare back - and shifting shoulderblades - relight something deep within her.

Christ. She's hopeless. How is it fair, to want someone and not be able to work up the nerve to go for it? Maka wants to box up these childish fears and lock them away in the attic where they belong; at eighteen, shouldn't she be less afraid of making her parents' mistakes? At eighteen, shouldn't she be more concerned with being Maka instead?

Soul sure doesn't seem too torn up over their canceled boinking session. She's not sure if such blatant acceptance of her unease is comforting or not; because, on one hand, to know he respects her and wants her to be comfortable and totally sure more than anything else warms her heart and makes her think that she's picked the right one - and on the other hand, the jealous, insecure part of her wonders if he never wanted to sleep with her in the first place.

"Soul?" she pipes up.

He hums halfheartedly, sliding himself more comfortably into the driver's seat. When she doesn't immediately follow, he glances over his shoulder and raises a brow. "Huh?"

"Do you… want to do it?"

"... Uh-"

"B-Because, if you don't, it's okay, I mean-"

They will never achieve their former coloring again. For as long as the both of them shall live, it seems Soul and Maka are destined to paint themselves pink. His fingers are long and distracting as they clutch the headrest of the passenger seat, forearms taut, and he mutters, "I want you," with enough gravel in his voice to rumble her bones. "Don't be stupid. That's not what this is."

Maka presses her hands into her lap and stares him down. There's her characteristic fearlessness, finally, returning to her in spades. "I just thought you'd want it a little more, I guess. You just gave in so easily, and we haven't even gotten past second base, a-and Blake-"

"Blake is a grubby asshole who doesn't know how to keep his fat mouth shut," Soul grunts, expression tight. It should not be as attractive as it is, but Maka can't help it, and she squirms where she sits. There is something to be said about such blatant passion etched into her cool guy's features, even if it isn't aimed at her - and certainly, there's also something to be said about Soul taking control over his own life, too, and speaking out for himself. It is half pride and half barely-docked desire that really presses Maka's palms into her lap.

Still, she must persevere, for the sake of their sex life. Perhaps their relationship, too. And the jealous part of her heart that can't seem to settle itself, no matter how deeply she trusts this special boy. "So… you do want to do it?"

He sighs, then leans his head against his own headrest. "I'm not dating you just to have sex with you, Maka-"

"So-"

"But," he cuts in, an angry red blush burning all the way to his ears, "when- if- you're ready… I'm down. No rush. Don't really think I need to get you naked in order to prove that we love each other. I'm not gonna rush you into anything- it's not cool to force a girl, you know. Not cool at all."

.

Later, on the drive back to her place, Soul finally cracks.

"I didn't really come prepared," he blurts. From aside, Maka shoots him a glance over her shoulder. With a one-hand feel on the steering wheel, he rests his hand on her bare knee and looks effortlessly cool, like she's sure he so desires. It's funny, really, that he exudes such coolness in moments like these, where he's not really paying attention to things like body language and aggressive stone-facing.

Maka runs her fingers along his knuckles, traces the lines of his hand, circles his bony wrist. "Prepared?"

"Condoms."

The lamppost splays him with a spotlight, and finally, Maka can't stop herself from laughing, and he joins in, not a moment too soon. When composure returns, and she's back to memorizing the shape of his fingers and palm, he's smiling mindlessly, with such unpracticed, painless ease.

"Dummy," she says affectionately.

He gives a half shrug, and slides his hand away from her skin only to pull into her driveway. He burns goosebumps in his wake, each elongated stroke of his finger a scalding trail. "Kind of thought if it really came down to it, and you were ready, I could improvise-'

A giggle bubbles in her chest. "How?"

The porch light flicks on, but Maka's unconcerned with her mother, lingering in the doorway, squinting into Soul's headlights. There's not a force in the world that could tear her eyes away from the way he licks his lips and then smiles at her, slow and steady. For a moment, she's wired tight, ready to blow, and suddenly that hand from before is on her knee again and it means something.

Improvise indeed. What a creative soul he is.

Maka leans over and presses her mouth to his, hands bunched up in the shoddily-buttoned flannel that encases him. He melts against her delightfully, fingers pressing into her knee with such delightful need, and ah, maybe driving her home had been a bad idea after all. Perhaps there is some merit to fooling around without actually going all the way and making things difficult for modest sensibilities.

If… they can even be called that. Is daydreaming about her boyfriend's head between her thighs really a modest sensibility?

Whatever. When he smiles at her, it's sharp-toothed danger mixed with dedicated loyalty, and if her mother weren't staring them down, Maka might forget her skeletons in the closet long enough to see if maybe the second time's the charm. But for now, they're out of time, and she pecks his cheek once more before slipping out of his car and back into reality.

His eyes are hotter than any spotlight. She feels his stare right up until she shuts the front door behind her, and if her knees wobble, well, it's too dark for her bleary-eyed mother to make assumptions, anyway. Who has to know?