2008
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"Turn, please?"
Christ, she should have smothered more concealer under her eyes. Maka looks like a zombie, standing there in an ill-fitting bridesmaid dress, pale and sickly, swaddled in pink silk. It's supposed to make her look darling, or perhaps even flatter her, but she's just a pinch too yellow-toned to pull it off at the moment, and with her hair all tied up atop her head in a lackluster bun, she looks less supportive maid of honor and more Maka Albarn, circa 1999, the year of college-induced overnighters.
It's a recipe for disaster anyway. Although she's no longer a teenager, gangly and slim, she's still not exactly the picture of stereotypical beauty. Her hips have rounded out, sure, but only enough for them to peek through the shapeless silk, hipbones visible and sharp, despite the slip she'd thought to purchase. And - as her eyes sink lower on her reflection, scoping out the uninteresting line of her sternum - it's certainly doing nothing for her bust, either. Without the aid of a push up bra, there is no cleavage to be found.
Which isn't a terrible thing. And ordinarily, Maka wouldn't give a flying fladoodle about how her tits look in her bridesmaid dress, because the day isn't about her anyway. There's no need for her to steal the show.
Not... that her tits are anything to write home about. 32B is about as impressive as waking up in the morning to slick, snow-covered roads and no 2-hour delay. And really, there's no one to impress, except-
Except only hours ago, Maka had quite literally run into Soul Evans. The very same Soul Evans who had fucked her and chucked her nearly ten years ago, so excuse her if she's feeling a little vindictive. Is it wrong of her to want to show off what he could have had, should he have came with her?
She deflates. There's not much to show off. She looks like she hasn't slept in the ten years they've been apart. There is no extra bounce in her ounce. Her hair is thin and drab and she's never been able to do anything with it except tie it back, and that's- well, he's seen that all already. He's seen everything already. Cracked her open, took a peek inside and decided that she just wasn't worth it. She wasn't for him.
It should not still sting.
"Did I pin you?" the seamstress asks, brows drawn.
Maka schools her expression into something closer to careful indifference and shakes her head. Ah, maybe grimacing into the mirror while mentally checking off all of her physical flaws isn't the best plan. Certainly won't do anything to keep suspicion off of her back.
"No," she says, chewing her lip. "I'm just tired, sorry. Did you need me to turn again?"
The seamstress plucks another from her tiny red pincushion and shakes her head. "No, dear, we're almost done. Keep still. Back straight. Face forward, please - yes, that's better. You're sure everything is alright? Does everything feel okay?"
She's been nursing a broken heart since she was eighteen years old, and the asshole who tossed her aside just waltzed back into her life, but, "I'm fine."
There is value in pretty lies. To be the same emotional, blown-open teenager with her heart on her sleeve - it'd be dangerous, to allow herself to be so vulnerable. The first time had very nearly town her apart, and to let it happen again - fool her once, shame on him, but fool her twice?
Maka crinkles the fabric of her dress between her fingers as the seamstress stands up and turns away. The girl looking back in the mirror looks caught between eighteen and twenty-eight, and when she turns to glance over her shoulder, Tsubaki seems to notice the paradox as well. God, even despite her best efforts, Maka still can't seem to keep her thoughts to herself; she still has to broadcast her feelings like a damn televised show, like she's still the same struggling ingenue she'd been ten years ago, chest torn wide open.
It's frustrating. Maka swallows thickly and tries to bear it.
"It's a pretty color on you," Tsubaki says gently.
She feels like a toddler playing dress up in her older sibling's clothes, just big enough to be uncomfortable and unflattering, just enough to make her feel small and insignificant. She is no doll, she supposes. Has she ever been particularly pretty?
"Thanks," Maka says, still bunching up her skirt in her hands. "I think I need a tan."
Tsu shakes her head. "It can't be any worse than me in white. I'm just as pale as you are, you know."
It's true, but Tsubaki Nakatsukasa is tall and willowy, with high cheekbones and pretty pink lips and a fuller figure than Maka could ever dream of having. The type of pretty that people write poems about, the type deserves flowers in their hair and to wear such delicate pastel shades. With only a week before the wedding, Tsu is every bit the blushing bride she's meant to be, painted like a porcelain doll, all prettied up even though there are still seven days to go before her big day.
And yet Maka still hasn't gotten her dress situation figured out. If possible, she deflates more. "Sorry about the dress."
"No! No, it's okay. It's our fault for not ordering the right size the first time. It's nothing a little fitting room magic can't fix, though."
Somehow, she doubts any amount of magic will make her look like a blooming rose, but whatever; it's Tsu's day, anyway, not hers. Maka's not the one putting a ring on it, not the one people will focus on as she floats down the aisle.
She hops down from the platform and collects her skirt, hem dragging behind her as she scurries over to the changing room. Once she's free of the dress, the invisible zipper has been undone along her side, it's easy to breathe again and feel more like herself. The safety of an oversized sweater, some comfortable flats - it's more like home, and even through her nails are bitten down and chipped, she still feels prettier in this than a gown.
It only lasts so long. She catches another fleeting glance at herself in the mirror and cringes at the tension in her brows, the darkness under her eyes.
"Maka?"
She jumps, flinches, turns to face Tsubaki. By now, the girl's stood up, clutching her purse to her chest, looking motherly and concerned. "Are you sure everything's alright?"
It's not about me, she thinks urgently. How selfish would it be to make this wedding about me?
"Of course," Maka starts, crushing the tiny voice in the back of her head that screams danger, danger. "I'm just stressed about the wedding, you know? But it'll be fine. I can take a nap later when I get home, and Crona and I will go over some more planning things when I wake up-"
"Please don't push yourself!"
Doesn't she know? Studying, planning, outlines and notes - this is all she has. It's the only way she knows how to deal, the only way Maka's ever known how to compartmentalize her thoughts and feelings so that she may just starve off the imminent explosion yet.
.
By the time she finally makes it home, Crona already has dinner on the table and wears a wrinkle between their brows.
"You're late," they mutter, fiddling with their sleeves. "You're never late."
Not entirely true; Maka routinely goes for runs to blow off steam, and sometimes those runs last for hours at a time. To say she's always punctual is a bit of a stretch, but still- the way Crona nibbles their lip as they pull out a chair for her is enough to dilute the fog that spreads from ear to ear and makes Maka feel particularly Stabby. Guiltily, almost unreasonably so, she drops into the seat and proceeds to shred a paper napkin between her fingers.
It must be more than a little odd. A tell, perhaps, and that notorious temperamental Albarn blood runs through her veins, sure as shit. Maka's always worn her heart on her sleeve. Just this once, though, she wishes she could swallow down the lump in her throat that clogs up the way for reason and responsibility. Who is she, running around and worrying her roommate? Who is she, worrying Tsubaki, soon-to-be bride, married woman, recipient of a well-deserved happily ever after?
Floral-printed confetti falls in a pile before her. Crona gently nudges the plate towards the center of the table instead. "M-Maka?"
"I got caught up at the seamstress, sorry," she says miserably, melting forward, elbows on the table and all. "I forgot to text."
"Weddings are a lot of work," they mumble.
Maka finds herself humming in agreement. With an outstretched hand, she sleepily twists her fork around a pile of spaghetti. "Sorry to worry you."
"I-I'm just glad you're home before dark. Did you go for a run, too?"
She laughs humorlessly as pasta slops back off of her fork and into the saucy abyss. "Can you tell? Do I smell?"
They pink. "N-No! You just- you h-have this look on your face," Crona says, first softly, before gaining momentum in spades and bravely planting themselves in the seat across from her. Tall and willowy, now, without looking sickly, there's a brief moment where a seed of affection blooms in her chest, a tinge of pride as she watches her closest friend sit tall. She can still remember a time when Crona wasn't quite bold enough to speak their mind, not brave enough to inquire further, lest they simmer in the fear of upsetting her.
It's refreshing, to be questioned. Especially since her friends have done such a bang-up job of handling her with kid gloves for the past few years. Careful, careful, as if afraid that Maka might break again.
Crona's hand blankets over hers. Maka snaps back to reality, cursing beneath her breath. "I'm fine," she says automatically.
But her roommate is clearly not convinced. They bite their lip, slender fingers curling around her wrist before muttering, "Are you sure? B-Because, if you're not-"
She is Maka the brave, Maka the independent, and worrying Crona is something she can never do. Not again, not after her spectacular burnout in college, not after locking herself in her dorm room for weeks, parting only to mindlessly take notes in class and shower, occasionally. And to be that girl again - that miserable, pitiful girl, so lovelorn over a boy that it nearly destroyed her - would be against her very code.
She is strong. Now and always, and fuck him for ever taking that fire out of her eyes. Fuck him for ever making her helpless.
Fuck him, especially, for waltzing back into her life and throwing everything out of whack, just when she was beginning to find a rhythm again. It's taken her ten years to find harmony again, to trust that maybe, just maybe, not everyone is going to leave her behind, that it will not always be so lonely. She has a degree now. She's a goddamned doctor, sure as shit, just like Mama always wanted.
"I'm fine," Maka repeats. Perhaps if she keeps saying it, the notion will finally sink in. As if stubborn repetition can cauterize all wounds. "Really, it's nothing."
Crona doesn't seem convinced. It's fine, though; Maka's not really too convinced either. But healing takes time, she thinks, and if ten years isn't enough time to get over Soul Evans and his stupid, crooked grin, then hell, she's already committed; what's a few more days, really, before he's up and gone again? Trust is easy, now that she knows what to look for. Trusting that he will fade away at 28, just as he'd tried so valiantly to at 18, is a breeze. Easy as breathing.
She is Maka the brave, and nothing will bring her down. Not an awkward wedding reception, not a boy, and certainly not the concerned look Crona gives her as she downs her glass of wine and shuffles off to bed.
Nothing is more motivating than spite, after all. And despite him, she's going to be alright.
.
Keeping her cool around Liz is considerably more difficult.
Mostly she feels betrayed. If anyone, Liz knew what the breakup had done to her. Liz had been the one to push them together, after all. And beyond that, Liz had been more privy to Soul's moods than even Maka had been, so she'd certainly known that the big Something was coming long before her. And for a long time, it had stung, knowing that her friend kept in touch with the boy that nearly set Maka unchained, left her locked inside her dorm room for her first semester, mourning the loss of her childhood innocence.
But she'd forgiven her, finally. Grew up enough to look past it, even woman'd-up enough to politely scroll by Facebook posts involving their band before even they broke up, inevitably. Christ, but they'd been more on-and-off than anything else, seemingly collecting their shit long enough to put together a few songs before breaking apart again.
Inviting him to the wedding, though, is a crossed line. And it's not Maka's wedding, fair, but it's still- to put through her such heartache is cruel. To put him even in the same space, to allow him to breathe the same air- she's heated just thinking about it. Sitting across from her is a decidedly Bad Idea, but dinner with the brides is just part of the bonding experience, helps soothe the pre-wedding jitters that keep Tsubaki biting her lip and Liz nervously fiddling with her glass of wine.
Maka keeps wisely - kindly - quiet, jaw set, barely resisting the urge to purse her lips
"I-Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?" Crona pipes up, nibbling airily on the end of a cheese fry.
Liz downs a sip of her drink and leaves a burgundy stain on the rim of her glass. "That'd be a little hard, considering we live together."
"We still have a week left anyway!"
"Oh," they say, nodding. They move to dip their fry in ranch dressing, chew and swallow before speaking up again. "Is that how it works?"
"Hah!" Blake laughs, leaning forward and very nearly knocking the salsa into Maka's lap. "They just don't want to stop fucking each other stupid before the big day. I hear it all, Crona, lemme tell you. Those apartment walls are not thick."
"Blake!"
Tsubaki's resulting gasp does nothing to mute his mile-wide grin. "You're getting married, Tsu, we all know it's happening! None of us were born yesterday-"
"Can we not discuss their sex life over dinner?" Maka cuts in, quite literally yanking the blue buffoon back by his earlobe. As much as the petty, angry part of her likes watching Liz squirm, it's still not worth Tsubaki's suffering.
And, really, Maka's in no mood to watch their happy sex life be paraded before her eyes. Simmer, simmer. Blake falls back and Maka mashes her hand back into her lap, staring pointedly at Liz's own hand as she laces her fingers between her fiance's. An unreasonable bout of jealousy fills her, thick like sludge, as her thumb glides soothingly over the tender skin of Tsubaki's palm.
Maka takes to chewing on her straw to distract herself. There's still a space left between her fingers, and with nothing else to fill it, she grips the cool glass of her drink, condensation damp on her skin. The ice jingles against glass like welcome bells, and when Maka glances up from her silent contemplation, there's another presence, looming at the edge of their booth like death himself.
For someone so tall and moody, he moves so quietly. But Maka would know Soul Evans' signature aura anywhere, and feels him with annoyingly accurate revelation. And she stares, because she's completely unsure what else she's meant to do in such a situation - greet him and pretend like everything's alright, like she hasn't plotted revenge and payback and the like hundreds of times? Like she hasn't cussed him out after every long college weekend, drunk off of cheap beer and wine coolers?
Her straw crushes between her teeth. From her side, Crona squirms.
"Here, I'll push over," Liz starts, bumping elbows with her soon-to-be wife. "We can make room-"
"Motherfucker," Blake mutters incredulously.
Soul ducks beneath the combined weight of their stares and shuffles nervously. Something in Maka's chest tightens as he sits, shoulders sloping further the longer her gaze sits, and- he piles his hands together on the table, not quite politely but still not intrusively, and fuck him for being here at all and acting as if he's welcome. Fuck him sideways.
"Uh," Soul says cautiously.
"You motherfucker," Blake repeats, leaning forward, palms planted on the table. Nearby restaurant patrons stare, and Crona wilts beneath the heat of attention even more quickly than Soul does. "Who the fuck do you think you are, ignoring my texts, we could have split a hotel-"
What.
"-I've been blowing up your phone for HOURS, Evans, and then you just show up here," Blake says, then lifts a hand and gives Maka's ex boyfriend a noogie of all things. And here she'd been, thinking he'd been about ready to knock the daylights out of him. Hoping, even. "C'mere, you reclusive son of a bitch-!"
"-Easy, I'm sure his stupid hair is the reason he's late-!"
"What," Maka blurts, finally, finally, and time screeches to a halt.
There are hundreds of ways Maka's thought about interacting with Soul again. Mostly, she's fantasized about finally getting back at him, of revving up and punching him right in his stupid mopey face and making him cry for once, or- or accepting her degree while he watches from afar, a burnout, miserable, alone. And in her wildest, loneliest dreams, she'd thought about him in less violent, petty ways- thought of his hands, and his face, and fleeting, heart wrenching memories of how soft his lips had been the first time he'd kissed her, the last time he'd kissed her, on her porch, with the lamp flickering, haloing him in holy light.
It's almost funny. Ten years and he still looks at her the same way. Ten years and he still can melt her goddamn knees, can make her heart skip and clench.
Rage, though. It's rage now. And her balled up fists on her lap do nothing to help sate the ire brewing within her; she feels a little like a bottled-up volcano, a barely banked inferno, so primed and ready to burst. Not just aimed at Soul, either. Maka shoots Liz a furious, piercing look, and it's nearly enough to shatter her carefully-maintained calm.
"Ah," Soul mumbles, shuffling at the foot of the table, shrugging Blake's beefy arms off of his person. He can't quite meet her eye for a moment, caught staring at the table before her, the crushed straw of her drink. "... Hey, everyone."
"Soul," Liz says pleasantly, then shoots Maka a look. Volcano Maka simmers, bubbling, boiling. "Have a seat. Tsu and I can scoot to make room."
There's no way. Maka feels like shouting, kicking her legs and screaming he can't sit here because no, no way. She's here, and regardless of Soul's long term friendship and history with Liz, it would just be cruel to trap her like this, at dinner with her ex boyfriend - the Ex, the one singers croon over and writers pen damply and girls like Maka throw their wine glasses at. And she's armed, too. Liz's drink is only a breath away. It's tempting.
But sure as shit, after his clear internal waffling, Soul sits nervously at the end of the booth. It's like all of the air has been sucked out of the room, and Crona, who sits across from him, makes a panicky, gasping sort of noise. "I-I-"
"Hey," he says again, weakly.
They offer a weak smile. Tense. The only thing that's more tense is the way Liz keeps staring at Maka, as if demanding she behave, like a mother. As if Liz is her keeper and can control her.
Have a little faith, she thinks.
"I'm glad you could make it," Liz says finally, pointedly, offering Soul a welcoming smile. It's surely at odds with Maka's current mood, which has shifted from strained politeness to stabby. The curved, freshly manicured edge of her nails dig into her palms. "Hope you're hungry!"
He grimaces, then finally peeks over at her. Soul's eyes are just as dark as they'd been a few days before, when she'd accidentally ran into him. "I could eat," he admits, quietly, so carefully withdrawn, as if not to offend.
Asshole. He's offensive just by breathing the same air as her. She grits her teeth and curls her fists deeper into her lap, if possible, leaning further back into her seat and hoping Blake's bulging biceps might shield her from Soul's eyes. He cannot look at her like that, so shyly, so sadly. It'll make her cry. And more than anything else, she wants to clock him, right in between his stupidly pretty eyes.
Eyes that keep gazing over at her, now. Maka keeps catching him staring, shooting her sad puppy looks, fluttering, feather-light lashes annoyingly, delicately. He has absolutely no business looking at her like that and yet he still does. The distance between them is enough to feel invasive, but not small enough, still, to warrant spitting on him or something along those lines. Maka the Mature certainly would never take the bait.
Unfortunately, she's not feeling quite as mature right now as she should be. Maka instead takes to glaring at him every time she catches him staring. And every time, Soul shrinks back, but he's only a shadow of the curious, anxious boy he'd been in his youth, and this newfound nerve that strums through him every time she holds his gaze long enough does things to her, instead.
So much for going on the offensive.
Asshole, she thinks again.
"That's what I like to hear!" Liz says with a rousing laugh, sitting forward and shoving her drink at him. "Here, loosen up again. Take a look at the menu. We've got a lot to catch up on, Evans."
Those wine-red eyes of his flicker, just for a moment, like an old VCR recording; there's white static humming there, and the wash of his lashes aligns the light again. Soul says, "No thanks."
"Huh?"
He gently nudges Liz's glass away. "I don't drink. I'll take the menu, though."
And that's that.
"Excuse me," Maka commands, not asks, before quite literally shoving her way out of the booth, climbing over Blake's lap and stumbling over Crona's legs. There's a round of gasps, and Maka takes special care to stomp on Soul's foot on her march out, feeling petty and powerful and spiteful, despite everything else, despite Tsubaki's delicate cry of her name.
.
Her escape goes almost flawlessly, and she's halfway across the restaurant and kicking the bathroom door open when she hears Liz's bracelets jingling behind her, and then it's on. It's on like Donkey Kong, and she's whirling around, heart thundering in her ears, blood roaring; she is not this girl anymore, goddammit, but what the fuck kind of friend traps her in a situation like that? Liz knows better, for goodness sake! She knows.
Maybe not in the way Tsubaki does, but still- she'd seen, definitely, and she'd almost certainly heard the dirty details from her girlfriend, too. Her high school sweetheart.
She swallows and it burns. Like acid, melting what's left of her composure as it slips down, plummeting into the pit of her stomach, like a single drop of blood in a dish of milk. And how it burns, still, and her knees tremble despite herself.
"What," Maka asks, seething, shaking. "Can't I use the bathroom in peace?"
Liz's bangles continue clinking together as she rounds on her, red nails dragging against the porcelain of the sink. "I didn't think you'd run away, Maka."
"I'm not running."
"You ran," Liz insists, standing before her. It's smothering, still being shorter, even in heels. It's smothering, being looked down upon like that, as if Liz knows better than she does. As if she knows more, miraculously, about Maka's own breakup, Maka's own ex, Maka's own feelings. "Like an angry puppy with its tail between its legs. It's not like you at all."
"Maybe I wanted to freshen up!" She throws her hands up. "Or maybe- maybe I just-!"
"You angry?"
Angry isn't even the half of it. If she weren't so caught between crying and screaming, Maka might grace that with an answer. Instead, she grunts spectacularly, turning to face herself in the bathroom mirror and dragging her hands down her face.
Liz is as ruthless as ever. She's over her shoulder in a heartbeat, stare as razor-sharp as her eyeliner, and Maka growls in the back of her throat, nose flaring. "You're angry, aren't you? Who, at me? Him?"
"Both!"
Her eyes are grey-blue gunmetal. "It's my wedding, Maka. He's my friend."
"But-!"
"He's my friend, Maka," she says again, very sternly, and Maka exhales shakily through her nose, feeling childish and selfies and vindictive, more than anything else. Monstrous, almost. "It's been ten years, you know. I thought you'd be mature enough to handle it without making a scene."
The chink in her armor is blown wide for a white-hot moment, and before it's even past, she's hard at work, patching it up shoddily with whatever she can get her hands on. Bracing herself on the sink, Maka sighs heavily, shoulders sloping. How, she wonders, can Liz be so casually cruel, blatantly dropping such harsh honesties on her? It's such an unfair game changer. And she's so right, and that pisses her off more than anything.
Jerk friend of hers knows Maka can't resist a challenge. She's competitive almost to a fault. Maka always has a point to prove, and if her very maturity is coming into question - her very level of adult, of strength, for goodness sake - well, of course she's going to fight tooth and nail to defend it, regardless of the ache that's begun to chill her heart again.
Liz's hand is warm on her shoulder. "... Sorry. It's just- you know, my mom isn't coming, and I just wanted-"
"No," Maka interrupts, bricks falling into place. Her bones are steel and melting together, caging her hummingbird heart tight for safekeeping. "No, you're right. It's your wedding, Liz. You deserve to have people surrounding you who you love. I'm- it's not my moment. It's yours, and it's Tsubaki's, and I- I'm an adult," she says, her lip very much not wobbling. "I can handle it."
If there is one person in the world who understands what it's like to chase after a wayward mother, it's Elizabeth Thompson. And it's all she really needs to give in and play nice. There are few things that can truly disarm Maka, that can extinguish her fighting spirit - and it's reminders of her own mother, miles away, with a new husband and an adorable kindergartener's art adorning her fridge. Because of course, of course Maka knows what it's like to be left behind. She practically wrote the damn book on it.
They share a loaded look in the reflection of the mirror. If Liz notices her friend has begun crying, she politely ignores it. She shoves away from the sink, swears under her breath and kicks a bathroom stall.
Maka sniffles and turns the faucet on.
"He promised to play nice," Liz mutters, barely audible over the sound of rushing water and Maka's attempted even breathing. "I wouldn't have invited him if I thought he was going to try to hurt you again, Maka."
"It's not my business," she says automatically.
"I was mad at him for a long time, you know."
"I don't control your relationships, Liz."
The kicked stall door squeaks shut, and Liz's heels click as she ambles back toward her own sink. Maka looks at her from over her shoulder, watching her grit her teeth and check for smudged lipstick. Her tongue slides over her front teeth, but it's when she's running her fingers through her flat-ironed hair that she finally mutters, "Sorry."
Sorry.
It's exactly what she'd wanted to hear, and somehow, it still doesn't soften the blow any. It's echoes of the past, a ghost of a week ago - sorry, Maka. Sorry.
It's about time she starts acting 27 and leaves heartbroken 18 in the past.
Like. For real, this time. Play nice. For her friend's sake. For one of her best friend's wedding to her high school sweetheart, long term girlfriend, happily ever after and all that jazz. Just because her heart's been spoiled and romance is no longer on the table for Maka doesn't mean she has to damn it for everyone. Doesn't mean she has any right making the wedding party awkward just because she can't control her pettiness.
"Don't." Maka can't quite take the pity, can't quite take the loaded, heavy looks Liz keeps shooting her through too-long hair. Her hoop earrings catch the light just right and she's the most distracting, solemn looking thing she's seen in hours- somehow more desolate and despairing than her own piteous reflection. "It's fine, okay? I was being a brat. I can play nice, too."
Liz rolls her eyes. "You still Facebook stalk him, you loser."
"Like you don't do the same to your exes!"
"Tsu's my impulse control," Liz says defensively, and just like that, the tension shatters. Drowns itself in the porcelain sink and spirals down the drain, and Maka twists the faucet off and watches the water twist and swirl until it's gone, and she's left staring at off-white porcelain, blinking back selfish tears.
Courage, she thinks. Nothing can hurt you if you don't give it the power to.
Fool her once, shame on him. Fool her twice, though - not in a million fucking years.