1998
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Home has never felt less like home.
Without Mama - without tension - it's like the space is alien to her. Because, sure, there have been several moments where Maka had wished for a less stressful family, for parents that didn't bicker and use passive aggression to guilt one another into reading their only daughter bedtime stories, but never once had she ever wanted for her mom and dad to split up. With only one parent in residence - and the wayward, skirt-chasing one at that - her childhood home is almost a graveyard, unnervingly eerie. Quiet, to say the least.
She doesn't like it. Papa's certainly been trying, but it seems he's still set in his ways. There are mornings where Maka is left waking in an empty house, with a box of donuts on the table and no note left behind. And while she chews idly on a stale glazed donut, she wonders who her father is with, which pretty, sweet-smelling woman he's drowning his guilt in today, and if he thinks it's worth losing the stability of his family over.
If a pair of tits is more important than his frazzled teenage daughter.
Maka crushes the crusty donut in her hand and drops it in the trash. Asshole. Grubby good for nothing Papa. Jerk. Who does he think he is, going around and ruining everything? Chasing Mama away?
The whole thing is so awkward. Being home isn't comforting. Literally fleeing the scene and crying on a very stoned Soul's shoulder had been as cathartic as it was embarrassing - he'd had enough coherence to stroke back her hair and kiss her forehead, but still, there'd been a hazy, dazed sort of lull in his attention. And so shortly after their fight, too! Who is she, running into a man's arms for comfort, when her gross Papa had ruined his marriage and scared Mama away?
Maka thinks to check the voicemail on the landline once before hurrying on her way to school. The disappointing sting of an empty mailbox haunts her until the final bell.
.
Needless to say, she's mostly forgiven Soul.
What he does in his free time is none of her business, really. As long as he's not actively cheating on her - or breaking the law (then again, he is probably smoking pot, so perhaps she reassess this particular bullet point in her journal) - then there's nothing she can do to stop him. In the end, the most she can do for him is to offer her assistance and lend a listening ear for his troubles. A good girlfriend would be there for him in his time of need. A good friend would be there for him, even.
And if she can't be a daughter worth staying with, then dammit, she'll be a girlfriend worth loving.
"Well," greets Wes, smiling down at her. The front door swings open and Soul's older brother leans a hand on the upper door frame. "If it isn't my future sister-in-law."
On any other day, she might be more willing to blush politely through Wes' antics, but calc was rough and Papa tried groveling at her feet in the school parking lot this morning, so Maka's shenanigans tolerance is at an all time low. Still, though, it would be rude to downright snarl at Wes, especially since he often means no harm, so Maka tries willing the corners of her lips into a smile and hugs her books to her chest. She's not Soul, after all. Needlessly growling at people and flipping her head aside dramatically won't solve her problems. Avoiding eye contact will not will Wes Evans and his affectionate ribbing away.
He leans to the side and allows her entry. Maka shuffles by him and waits for the click of the door to sigh. "Is he upstairs?"
Wes hums. "Isn't he always? Your fair maiden is hiding away in his tower, brave knight."
His room has heavy curtains, dark posters and crumpled balls of paper littering the floor - it looks nothing like a fairy tale tower and everything like a dungeon, maybe even a graveyard. It's certainly quiet enough.
She has half a mind to march up there and shake out his old blankets. Make his bed, too, and maybe even scrub down his walls while she's at it. Fresh spring cleaning. Something she'll have some real control over, wiping away years worth of collected grime and dust from Soul's tomb on her hands and knees. There's still a fight in her, clawing its way through her chest, louder than any heartbeat, and if this is the only battle she's got left, then gosh darn it, she'll give it her all. He's still worth it. He'll always be worth it.
Solemnly, she eyes Wes. "How's he doing?"
He presses a finger to his lips. "I think he played our dearest nanny for a fool in order to stay home from school."
Yeah, she didn't really think he was very sick. His brain might be foggy, but it's got nothing to do with any physical ailment. "I see," she sighs wearily, shooting glances at the stairway, as if Soul might actually appear. Not likely. She'll find him buried beneath his blankets, curtains closed, not quite asleep but certainly not actually awake, no doubt about it.
"His attendance isn't spectacular, so I hear."
Maka exhales. "It's bad. I just…" Don't understand him? Don't know what to do? Don't know why he's doing this to himself, why he spends all excess energy treating her like she's made of spun glass?
"... Maka," Wes says, just as she turns to slip down the hall and up the stairway. "He might not be very talkative when you get up there."
"I know."
There's the sound of him shuffling behind her, and then his hand sits on her shoulder, warm and heavy in solidarity. She can't just go into battle without armor, after all. That would be suicide.
"He's trying," Wes says, very quietly. "Go easy on him."
Handling Soul with kid gloves won't solve his problems. Raising her voice at him, though, will only make matters worse. He flinches at loud noises, slinks back into his cocoon of blankets like a turtle retreating into his shell. She's not prepared to help him trudge through the demons lurking in the dark or the monsters under his bed. All she's armed with is a few math textbooks and history notes, as if focusing on the academics will be able to distract him from an expectant father and a materialistic mother.
If it can get him to pass his senior year of high school, Maka will consider it a success. Studies, note cards, algorithms - they're about the only things Maka feels proficient in. Cold, hard facts, things that can be memorized and recited back on paper for a grade, high test scores. Fat scholarships. It's about all she can offer him in comfort.
It's the only coping method she's ever known.
Sharing is caring. Maka swallows her fears and marches up the stairs, her boots heavy on the hardwood flooring. Each step echoes down the hall, each wall lined with ritsy, staged family portraits. Men, with Wes' strong jaw, Soul's pretty nose, their father's stern eyes stare back at her. No wonder Soul's so tied up in his insecurities, she thinks as she trails down the path to his bedroom. How's any boy supposed to grow up without stage fright if his life is lined with watchful, judgemental eyes?
She just hopes she won't find a corpse behind his closed door. The floorboards creak as she steps forward and knocks.
Once, twice.
A third time finally yields results, and Soul grumbles, "Go away." His voice is thick with exhaustion and a familiar something else, something she's never been able to pinpoint by name but has been clouding over him for the better half of a year. Even through everything they've done together - and it's a lot, just about everything except for outright penetration (blush, fidget, stupid immature girl) - the spell hasn't been broken over him. If anything, it's gotten worse.
Maka swallows thickly. Clears her throat. "It's me. I brought your homework?"
Radio silence. So much so that she can hear his boxspring complaining beneath his weight as he rolls over. That one squeaky floorboard under her foot squeals again.
"Can I come in?"
"Mmn."
It's… not a no, so Maka swings the door open and mentally prepares for the worst. It's dim in the afternoon, curtains predictably pulled shut, daylight banished.
Children are normally afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night; Maka wonders if Soul's grown up enough to fear the harsh, prying light of day, and if he's resolved to become nocturnal, now. If maybe he feels more comfortable being a thing that goes bump in the night, and if maybe they'd all been wrong about those so-called monsters for so long. She thinks there's a possibility that they're just misunderstood, lost spirits, aimlessly lurking without a goal. Certainly not malicious.
Just confused. Hurt. More than a little bit rebellious, too, but still glowing from the inside out, their golden hearts thumping steadily, a palpable pulse.
Her neglected, anguished Soul doesn't even peek out from his burial grounds. Merely shifts, white hair looking tattered and knotted amidst the dark shades of his pillows.
She approaches cautiously, as if making her way over to a skittish cat. No sudden movements, hands amiable, eyes soft. Even if he can't see her - even if he's stoned, bleary eyed and practically drooling as he stares into the tangled pit of his sheets and blankets, headphones tight over his ears - he can still sense her, in that uncanny, Soul Evans sort of way. He always just sort of knows when she's around, wise eyes able to pick her out of a crowd with nothing more than the tip of a fluttering pigtail or boot-clad ankle. Knows, too, the scent of her perfume (a simple, no-nonsense floral scent) and reaches for her impulsively, palm spread open.
And it sort of breaks her heart, in a way, when he doesn't automatically roll over to greet her. She's become too accustomed to this patchwork sort of inseparability they've had going on for the past however many years. For the first time, as she hugs notebooks and study guides to her chest, she realizes that maybe this whole thing isn't just in her head, so notorious for overthinking and overanalyzing. Maybe it's been an issue for Soul, too, and she'd simply overlooked him.
Shitty. She's so shitty. She can't even make her own boyfriend happy. Can't make her family stay glued together, either.
"Hey," she says, very softly. The lump in the center of his bed breathes, in and out, heavy like a stone. "I brought stuff."
Silence. Maka sets her things on his nightstand and carefully sits on the edge of his bed. She reaches out and slides her hand along what she assumes is the curve of his back, sloping spine and arched shoulders. Or could it be his stomach? And maybe his arms, outlined beneath the thick fleece? It's hard to say.
"... I'll leave it here? In case you feel better and want to study a little. I tried to make it easy to take in. Lots of bullet points."
Outside, a car whizzes by. Her boyfriend barely even moves.
I love you gets caught in her throat. Apologies, too, burn her tongue, caught behind her lips, and it's all she can do to lean over, smooth his willy bangs back and press a soft kiss to his hairline. "Sleep it off," is what she ends up saying instead, as if she didn't already know that he's not really sick in the traditional sense of the word. His weary bones and legarthic, lazy breathing are symptoms of an illness written in his aching soul. One she almost knows but cannot diagnose, not well.
He's a stranger, tangled up in these sheets. A boy with nightmares behind his fluttering eyelids and heart locked up tight.
.
Slowly, gradually, Soul comes around.
He doesn't truly pull out. And she doesn't expect him to, not while Wes fills their house with beautiful, practiced music and his mother cries proudly on his shoulder. Still, though, he does begin warming back up to his old self, jittery fingers pulling at the hem of his sleeves and eyes buried beneath hardened magma, crackling rock. When he holds her hand, his hands are clammy, and Maka kisses each knuckle with quiet determination melting away thoughts of Mama's absence and Papa's philandering.
He's just lifeless in the way he moves, like there are strings attached to his limbs and he is merely puppeting through everyday life, going through the motions. If life is a stage, then his fright is binding, and Soul's self is locked up tight in that mask he buries himself behind, as if it might shield him from the spotlight.
He's trying, Wes had said.
Soul braids her hair with shaking, anxious hands. He's trying for you, Wes had wanted to say. Each braid gets tied off with an old, stretched scrunchie, and it slaps her in the shoulder as Soul smoothes away stray strands of dishwater blonde to kiss the base of her neck. Bare skin, freckled skin, often pink with sunburn now warming with the heat of something else, something deeper, and Maka presses her hands to her lap and stares at the wooden walls of their treehouse.
"Done," he mutters, lips still pressed to her skin. He's only a breath away from a tender earlobe, and Maka wishes he'd take it between his teeth and nibble, just a little. Wishes his hands would press down the shape of her hips and around her stomach and cup the budding heat that's begun cooking her.
Touch me, her bones whisper. It echoes through her, makes her fingers itch and her cheeks bright. It's been so long, and though Maka doesn't think of herself as a particularly sexual creature - or even needy, at that - she still misses the way he'd made her feel. In only a month, graduation will be upon them, and she'll be so busy preparing her speeches, and packing up her room for college over the summer, and-
He dips lower, kissing the delicate curve of her neck. She trembles, lashes fluttering, heart leaping in her chest.
Touch me.
"S-Soul," she chokes out. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy and words are unusually hard for her - Maka, who swears by her pocket dictionary, who scribbles down pretty phrases and cold-hard facts in the margins of her diary, next to daydreams and college prep.
He hums. She slips back, greedily soaking up the heat of his chest, the way he presses his lips higher, kissing the side of her face, her temple. Those nervous, pretty hands press themselves to her thighs and Maka quivers beneath him. For once, she's the one shaking.
(Or maybe she's just joined in, and now she can't tell up from down, caught up in his frenzied melody.)
Not looking at him is too much. She wiggles in his lap, legs wrapped around his hips, pushing, pushing, and his mouth is hot. His tongue slides greedily against hers, and for the first time in months, she feels his old spark, the old whipcrack of his banter, his sharp wit in the way he kisses her. Like he's finally awake again in this ballooning moment of time, holding onto her hips so tightly that she's sure she'll bruise.
She'll wear each purpling mark with pride. Let it be proof that, even now, he still wants her. Even now, with the future breathing down their necks and no clue if things will really work out in the end, Soul still wants her. The plastic bag in the corner of the room is a deafening reminder, because months ago, before Soul's darkness had taken him hostage, they'd thought to buy condoms.
Condoms. Her mouth can't form the shape of the word while his tongue is mesmerizing her. She's on her back before she knows it, the old comforter minimal padding at best. It's cold in the early spring, but the fire written clearly on Soul's face could keep her warm for days. As it is, her mouth feels dry already, and she reaches for him, tugging the collar of his shirt down to reach his lips again, just chapped enough for her to bite and ground herself with.
Touch me becomes love me. Love me and stay with me always. Take this part of me and give me part of you, too.
He might be a barely banked inferno, but Soul still takes his time, touching and feeling everything. He's a man of the senses, trailing a single, talented finger down between her small breasts, tracing her sternum, right until the cut of her shirt blocks him from her skin. He blinks once and she blinks twice, wordless conversation, and Maka's only a little embarrassed as he helps her out of her clothes.
You, too, she says with her eyes, tugging on his belt loops. She's topless, and his fingers are hooked into the lace trim of her panties, and it's only fair if he's as vulnerable and bare as she is, right? It's only fair if he's nothing but skin and his soul, too, so that she can feel him breathe beneath her. Feel his heartbeat against her chest and remind herself that he's alive, despite the tomb in which he lives, despite the lifeless way he'd followed her finger across the page and studied algebra.
And he does. Shyly, eventually, he grabs his shirt by his collar and rips it over his head. He's not built the way Blake or Free is, but none of that has ever mattered to her. His skinny hips and the v of his waist is more than enough, and his bare skin hugged to hers as he grinds into her is almost more than she can take. The friction is nearly enough to spark a flame - there's something brewing between her legs, molten and lava and - god, she's so wet. And the way he kisses her neck as he slips his fingers down to test the waters is damp, too.
His tongue. His tongue.
"Please," she whimpers, squirming all around. She just can't sit still, not while he's inside of her in any capacity, touching that spot within her no one else has ever been. She could cry, but- but- "Your pants, Soul. Please."
He grunts and bucks against her trembling thigh. He's so hard beneath those jeans of his, and she might beg, if he didn't shortly loosen his belt and shove his pants down to his knees. And ah, ah, without the restricting demin she can feel him better. He's steel, concrete, so firm against the give of her thigh, and she can't help it, Maka has always been a hands-on learner.
(What a lie. She's an everything learner. Perverted girl.)
His jaw goes slack as she cups him in her palms. His mouth is a hot, wet patch on her throat, his teeth prickling the tender place where her skin is thin, and surely he can feel the way she swallows thickly. She wants him naked, too. There is no fear of pain, no fear of rejection, just a burning need to have him inside her.
Close. She wants him close, close enough to fuse their bones together and feel his heartbeat bounce off of hers and become one, even just for a few pulse-thundering moments. Who cares if it's her first time, and school had suggested she might bleed, that it might hurt - it's Soul, and for him, she's willing to give it all. He leans back and looks at her and his eyes haven't been clearer in weeks.
"Condom," he chokes out, grappling for the plastic bag. Any moment where he's not touching her is wasted, and Maka grinds herself shamelessly against his erection, head leaned back, sobbing his name. "Shit-"
He fits so neatly. Without his boxers, he'd be inside of her, and such a blatant urge to be filled is strange, foreign. Like he's the missing piece to her puzzle.
Eventually, though, Soul figures out how to use his hands and rips the box open, tears open the little package containing their treasure. He wiggles his way out of his underwear and Maka stares openly, the air between them thick and heady. Soul blushes beneath her watchful stare, stretching out the condom and hissing as he begins slipping into it.
"D-Does it hurt?" she finds herself asking.
Soul's lips pinch together. "'Ts cold," he grunts, and ever the helpful know-it-all, Maka leans to lend a helping hand.
His flesh is hot, and when she begins helping him roll the latex down to the base of his cock he hums a little, a soft mmmm that vibrates through her entire chest and sinks deep into that coiling heat, just below her tummy. It can't still hurt, not while he's making pleased noises like that, not while he's got a hand on hers and leads her through stroking him.
Short breaths. Maka tumbles back, and Soul holds himself steady in one hand and grasps her leg in another, hooking it around his narrow hips. She squeezes her eyes shut and prepares herself for the pain.
Except- it's not.
Uncomfortable, sure, at first. And strange, because aside from her own fingers - and Soul's, and his tongue, she thinks, blushing bashfully - she's never had anything inside of her like this. It's not as bendy as a finger, no knuckles, no carefully clipped nails accidentally catching parts of her and turning her off. It's thick, and it's warm, and hard, and - she chokes on the feeling of him filling her further, wondering when she'll have finally taken him all, wondering how much more there could possibly be.
He cups her cheek in his hand. "Maka."
"Is- blood," she cries uselessly, hooking her legs tighter around him. "Stop, stop."
He does. Faithfully, he stops, even as he twitches within her. "Maka," he says again, those scalding eyes caressing her as he trails down her bare body. "There's no- you're not bleeding, Maka," he mumbles.
"But, I thought?" Hymens! she thinks passionately. Something was supposed to break, wasn't it? She's a virgin. Or… had been a virgin, until moments go, when Soul had found his way into her heart and her body and broken something. Or had he?
Soul kisses her soundly at that. It's wet, and a little gross, but Maka's hands find his hair and tangle up in it anyway. And when she whispers, "Go," against his lips, he's still bound to her word. There is no sharp pain, no ripping, no point in which she feels that sex is unbearable and intrusive. Nothing tears, and apparently nothing bleeds - so that sticky wetness between her thighs must be something else. She blushes, presses her hot, burning cheek to his and wraps her arms around his shoulders.
He goes. And goes. And - oh - goes, until she's whimpering beneath him, because even if it's not as good as his tongue it's still intimate. Soul gasps her name over and over, like a prayer, perhaps, and holds her tighter, still plummeting into her. Her palms spread flat over the plains of his shoulders and she tries to map out the flexing muscles beneath, memorize them, as his pace breaks.
His voice is low as he comes. Low, and textured with his exhaustion, and his passion, and the way it crackles toward the end makes her want to cry and come, too. Feeling it happen for him - even with a condom between them - it's still magical, still feels important, and his bones thaw beneath her hands as he flops onto her.
"Phh," he huffs, then kisses her neck. "Your eyelashes tickle."
"Sorry," she says, feeling silly and exposed and ready to burst.
His palm burns down the slender curve of her waist, and without even missing a beat, there are fingers again, a warm thumb rubbing slow circles around her sensitive clit, and not even minutes later, Soul's carried her over the edge, too.
.
Maka thinks adulthood is overrated. She doesn't feel any different without her virginity. She doesn't feel any more adult, sitting there swaddled in Soul's worn flannel, watching him tune his guitar, butt naked.
Whatever's been eating him seems to have dissipated for the time being. Sure, he blushes prettily beneath her sweeping gaze, as she can't help but admire certain parts of him, but he doesn't shy away from her. Just sets his guitar on his lap, blocking her from gawking girlishly at certain forbidden, curious parts of his anatomy, and begins strumming, staring thoughtfully at her bare chest, the way his oversized, unbuttoned shirt keeps slipping off of her.
And it's her turn to blush. Maka struggles to tug the fabric back over her slim shoulder. "Don't stare," she says, pouting.
He manages a half-smile, eyes still dazed and distracted. "You stared," he retorts, then strums, braving his gaze up the pale line of her torso. Her neck, then, where hickies must be blooming, judging by the pleased lilt in his brow. "You kept staring, too."
"I've never seen one before."
"And I've seen lots of tits?"
Maka huffs. Hugs the fabric to her chest. "I've seen those porn magazines beneath your mattress."
He bites his lip and plucks at a string. Pathetically, Maka lets her eyes dip down, again, catching a brief glance at the trail of pale hair that leads to parts unmentionable. "They're Star's."
"Sure."
"I have better taste," he says slowly, meaningfully. He catches her gaze and holds it, more fearlessly than he has in such a long time. Maka might cry if he hadn't lulled her back into such a curious, strange sense of arousal. "'Sides, a picture's not the same as the real thing," he admits further, voice dipping. "Not as cute."
"Soul," she whines, bundling herself up further. The last thing she wants to be is cute after sleeping with her boyfriend for the first time. Sexy, maybe. Desirable. Capable of rocking his world with her slender hips and abs and tiny breasts.
But still, he just smiles at her the same, strumming away, pausing in his teasing to hum a chorus she thinks she might know. "Cute's not bad," he admits. "I like cute."
"Ugh!"
"Candle light and soul forever," he sings suddenly, and Maka's lips glue shut. "A dream of you and me together."
She does know this song. She's spent weeks, months, humming along to it on the radio in Tsubaki's passenger seat. Mouthing along to the words at Blake's Halloween party while in costume. Nothing she would have ever expected to come out of Soul's mouth - entitled, pretentious little music snob he is, with his high-profile jazz tastes and grungy, devil-may-care appearance.
Maka presses her hands to her face and giggles out an elated gasp. His smile only widens, and he shakes his head, clearly trying to replace it with an apathetic snarl. But he can't, not while he wears nothing at all, not while he bares his soul to her so blatantly. Whether he knows it or not, he's blown wide open for her, his knees pale and lips pink and swollen from biting. And when he sings, "Say you believe it, say you believe it," she can't help but crawl her way over, laying down on her tummy, cradling her chin in her hands as she watches him play, legs kicking daintily behind her.
"I can't believe you know this song," she whispers.
"Everyone in the English speaking world knows this song," Soul scoffs, still strumming, still humming.
"But you know how to play it!"
That gets him to blush. Caught! Maybe he hasn't just been studying up on academics - maybe he's spent his alone time studying up on her music, too. For her, he'd swallowed his tastes and learned her cookie-cutter pop, embraced girl power in its ripest form and learned how to play a sappy song about having sex for the first time for her.
She blinks, so completely enamored that it's hard to breathe. Soul strums. Maka parts her lips and blurts, "I love you so much."
It appears he can blush deeper. Poor Soul. He might never be the growling, eye-rolling badboy he so strives to be ever again, not while she's around, pouring herself on thick. He keeps playing, lips pursed, knees wobbling beneath her palms as she reaches out to touch him. She slides up, hands tracing his shape, sleek arms and smooth skin, his stubbly cheek, his soft lips.
Kissing him will never get old. Her heart feels fuller as she tastes him again, as his hands go limp and reach for her instead of his instrument. He slips beneath the flannel, holding her by her bare sides, fingers splayed possessively along the silk arches of her ribs. His attention breaks so easily now, caught up in touching her, cradling her, tipping her neck back to better slant himself over her and swallow her fears.
Adulthood isn't so bad after all.
For now, it's okay. For now, as long as Soul's right there, leading her back onto her back, shoving his old acoustic guitar out of his way, she'll be okay. Because maybe she doesn't have to brave this alone after all - maybe, maybe it'll be okay for her to lean on him, too. Depending on other people doesn't have to be so scary.
He pulls his shirt apart and dips to kiss the swell of her breast. Free your mind of doubt and danger. Be real, don't be a stranger. He's not singing anymore but she still hears the lyrics, thrumming in the back of her mind as his mouth finds her taut nipple, rendering her wordless and stupid, liquid heat beneath him, boneless and wonderful.
We can achieve it, we can achieve it.
She latches onto him and refuses to let go. She just can't; he's got a way about him that makes her want to fall deep, and for once, she's not very good at keeping afloat. Just this once - just for him - she'll let someone else lead.