2008

.

Getting re-accustomed to Soul being in her space isn't something she particularly has time for.

It is jarring, making eye contact with him after all of these years, with all of the bad blood still curdling between them. Or, on her end, rather, because apparently he has no qualms with sending her sad puppy looks across a room, or watching her walk, always a step and a half behind, melting her with those scalding eyes of his. She doesn't have to glance behind her to know he's staring; he's got laser-precision, a burning stare, and it would be impossible not to feel the way his eyes cook her from the inside out.

He's around again, so suddenly, very nearly out of nowhere, and Maka doesn't even have time to adjust to him. He's just there, lingering, hands shoved into his pockets.

Doesn't mean she has any desire to talk to him, though. She'd vowed to play nice, after all. Holding a conversation with him - or, heaven forbid, having a heart-to-heart with the jackass - is certainly not in the contract, and Maka will be damned if she allows herself to open up to him again. Never again, and certainly not now, while she's tugging up her dress and trying hard to make it through this rehearsal dinner without jabbing her fork into the back of Blake's hand. There's just too much to focus on to compartmentalize her messy feelings for Soul.

Maka grabs for glass of wine and promptly knocks it back.

There's a clearing of a throat, scuffling of shoes, and then, "Christ, Maka."

Misery loves company. And there's probably no more miserable a human than Soul Evans, so perhaps she's in good company. Maka groans and pushes her bangs back.

If she's going to make it through tonight, there's gonna need to be a whole lot more wine in front of her. Like, a toll. Only those who come bearing gifts are allowed to further heckle and frazzle her. Maka eyes him suspiciously, carefully sliding her glass back onto the table. "Go away, you tool."

He doesn't even grimace. "Ouch."

"I have enough reasons to pull out my hair without you here too, Soul," she says, very nearly hissing. If he were a smart man, he'd back off, throw his hands up and run with his tail between his legs like a good, scared little boy. But then again, this version of Soul is unfamiliar, a bright, shiny new model. Soul 2.0 doesn't quite have the dark stains under his eyes that betray his demons. "Shoo!"

Shrugging, he rubs his neck. "Aren't you supposed to be celebrating with the rest of them? It's a celebration, Maka. Leave the overthinking for later."

"And let Blake start a fist fight with Masamune?" She laughs, just from the sheer ridiculousness of it.

And here she'd been, assuming that Liz's family would be the dramatic ones of the bunch - fat chance, considering her mother hadn't bothered to come and nobody, sans said absent mommy, knows who Liz's dad is. And so, at the head of the Thompson end sits Dean Mortimer Jr (or Kid, as he prefers), college bestfriend, babyfaced still, holding a polite conversation with Tsubaki's father. Even Patty seems to be on her best behavior, engaged in a rousing storytelling session with Tsubaki's kid cousin, Tsugumi.

It's adorable, really. What little turnout she has is supportive, so supportive, and when Maka looks at Soul there's gut-wrenching guilt pooling, clenching deep. Selfish.

"Why'd you invite him?" Soul asks, shifting those dark eyes of his over to the man in question; Blake is a barely banked inferno from nearby, nose flared, clearly ready to throwdown over whatever poison the eldest Nakatsukasa sibling has decided to spit. "He's always been like this. Those two have never gotten along."

"Because he's Tsubaki's brother, and she's getting married?"

He grunts. "Doesn't make a damn difference if he's just going to start a fight. Tsu doesn't really look like she's having a good time."

Sweet Tsubaki, too kind to speak up against her family. She sinks back in her seat, lovely face strained, brow taut. It inspires Maka to pour herself another glass of wine and drown the urgent, foreboding sense of doom crawling up her spine. The warmth of the alcohol is soothing, in a makeshift, lazy sort of way, and something unfolds in the pit of her stomach, low and ancient.

Soul watches her tip the glass away from her lips. "Don't really think that's gonna help."

"Oh, what do you know?" she snarls, feeling looser and looser the longer the heat crawls up her cheeks. She must be rosy by now, two and a half glasses in, but Soul doesn't budge from his spot.

He does hook a brow at her, though. "I think you know better than anyone else how I'd know that. It's a temporary fix for a more permanent problem."

"You had pot, not two glasses of wine. You had a lot of pot, if I remember correctly."

His shoulders peak, then fall. "Same outcome in the end."

The heat prickles even her eyes, now, and it only enrages her further. "What do you care, anyway," she says, huffing, voice thick and tinged with an irritating dampness that Soul seems to recognize all too well. The moment the worry hits his eyes she's slamming back her drink and downing what's left in her glass before shoving it at him. "If you'll excuse me, I have a rehearsal dinner to manage. Some of us have responsibilities, you know, 'nd not ones that we can just opt out of at our earliest convenience!"

"Maka."

"Go away, Soul!" she hollers over her shoulder, and if it's too loud, well, the Nakatsukasas will just have to forgive her. There are bigger fish to fry, and bigger fights to pick - or defuse, rather - because Blake's looking particularly murderous, looming over Masamune's sleek shoulder, eyes like daggers, and the last thing anyone needs is a throwdown over the table of appetizers.

.

Liquid courage only gets her so far. The rate at which she'd consumed her booze catches up to her quickly, and sitting in the middle of a conversation is somehow more overwhelming than anything she's ever experienced before. Voices echo around her, but picking apart voices and making sense of the sequences of words just isn't in the cards. Conversation booms around her like thunder, and she feels a little lightning-struck, nursing her fourth glass precariously in her hands, too nervous to sip and worsen the haze.

Blinking owlishly, she glances between Blake, who has somehow lost the sleeves to his dress shirt in the measly two hours he's been at this damn dinner, and Liz, as she laces her fingers between her fiance's and makes a face like she's been sucking on a lemon. Ah, what?

It's too much. Words don't make sense anymore, and sitting here trying to decipher it all makes her head hurt.

"'Scuse," Maka mutters, shuffling back on her seat until the coast is clear and her legs are free.

Wobbling her way to the bathrooms is easy, and amidst all the shouting and conversation, nobody notices her leave. Her hands are useless, so Maka lifts a leg and kicks her way into the bathroom like a badass, because that's the only way she does anything. The swinging door shocks whoever is inside, and Maka marches forward, catching a blurry swatch of white hair on her radar.

"Jesus, what the fuck-" There's frantic shuffling, and whatever urination had been happening piddles to a shy end.

Dummy. "Nothing I haven't seen," she says bluntly, then pivots to splash water on her face. Ah, sweet relief. At least the fire has been partially doused, and the shock of the chill clicks her brain back into place. Kind of.

Soul zips up and scowls at her through the mirror. "You know this is the men's room, right?"

She blinks sluggishly, then turns to stare at him over her shoulder for good measure. So it is. Huh. Those sure are some urinals. That really is Soul, looking disgruntled and decidedly pink, folding his arms across his chest. Hm. His shoulders seem broader than usual.

Wiiiine braaaain.

"I've seen your penis before," she slurs, squinting at him. "I've had it in my mouth. You were there. You know!"

The pink is undeniable now. Even with the floaty weightlessness and blurring everytime she turns her head, Soul's face is still definitely painted pink, and before she can catch up with her thoughts, there's a vague, heated moment where she wants to taste the color, wants to drag her tongue over the heated skin of his cheek and his throat and see if he tastes like bubblegum or whatever. Or like sweat, maybe. She just wants to soak up his warmth like a greedy little lizard and thrive off of it.

She splashes herself with water again and groans miserably.

"Having fun yet?" he asks dryly, ambling his way over to the sink three across from her. Ah, patient Soul, always leaving her just enough space to make her mistake. Always pinning her down with those sharp eyes of his, leaving her feeling helpless and alone, so close to the cusp of something else.

Maka snarls and shakes her hands off. "No! You know- I can't, not when you're here!"

He grunts in response. "Yeah?"

Somehow it pisses her off more. With wet hands, it's hard to get a good grasp on the knobs of the sink, so she leaves it on full blast, regardless of the way the water splashes out of the off-white sink and dampens the front of her dress. Whatever, it's black anyway - sleek and black, and hell, if it's bad luck to wear black to a wedding then may god strike her down right here, right now, so that she may spare herself further embarrassment. "You- you're an asshole! A big jerkass, wh-who thinks he can just-"

"Yeah," he says again, solemnly. "Kinda wanted to talk to you about that."

"It takes you ten years to be ready to talk about it?"

Oops, is that her voice, so shrill and screechy? The floaty feeling's begun to sink, and her body feels heavier and heavier. Maka doesn't like it. She would prefer the echo-y haze come back, please, because balancing is somehow more difficult than ever, and his shoulders are broad and are looking more and more like a pillow as time goes on.

He turns to face her. Stares her down, finally, and with all the wine buzzing through her system and warming her crumpled heart she's brave enough to face him, too. God, when did he get so tall? Has he always been this tall?

And then there's that stupid fucking nervous grin of his, annoyingly - endearingly - crooked, and, "Dimples," she mutters miserably, because they're right there and just as cute as she remembered them to be. What a pretty-faced heartache this man is, no longer a boy, grown lean and full, chiseled Evans jaw and all.

Caught off guard, he swallows. "Uh?"

"Nothing!" But they're everything. Maka wants to punch them off his stupid attractive face. Or maybe kiss them. It's hard to tell. Overwhelming anger and hurt and nostalgia and misplaced, tipsy arousal are a dangerous combination, and she's never had very good impulse control.

Matters are only made worse when he leans over to switch the rushing faucet off. In the brief moment he stretches, the hem of his dress sleeve rises, and she gawks drunkenly at the bare skin of his wrist, tan and delicious, the hint of a dark tattoo peering over the fabric like a crescent-moon. Of course her stupid grunge-head ex-boyfriend had tattoos, of course! And leave it to her, ever clingy, left-behind Maka to find the slightest hint of one interesting.

Interesting. That's what she's going to call it. Anything else would be betrayal to her callous, burnt-out heart.

He tilts his head and glances at her. "D'you drive here?"

"Mmmm." Sure did. In her car. Because she's an adult who owns her own car and lives in an apartment and pays bills, Soul. Finished med school and everything, just like Mama always wanted. Isn't he proud? Isn't anybody?

It only takes him three steps to get over to the paper towel dispenser. "I'll take you home."

"I don't want you in my bed!"

Soul makes a muffled sort of cough. Even glances over his shoulder at her, eyes dark. "I didn't say I was going to invade your bed, Maka."

Of course not. He's just perfect now, isn't he? Goody two-shoes Soul doesn't even drink, stays sober just to play the hero and swoop his messy drunk ex off of her feat and into his waiting arms. Well, if he thinks it'll be that easy, he's got another thing coming.

It takes her twice the number of steps to stumble over to the paper towels, teetering like a bull in a china shop in her heels. Still, she catches his stare drifting to bare skin, her long legs (allegedly her best asset, especially in black pumps) and pokes him right in the collarbone indignantly. He jolts, and she pushes him aside to snatch her own inventory of paper towels and pats down the front of her dress. Oh, and maybe her hands, too. That might be a good idea.

Soul's rubbing the heel of his palm over his chest when he says, "Yeah, you're not driving."

"I'll call a cab," she says, stubbornly.

"Or I could just bring you back, free of charge."

"I'd rather walk!"

"You'd break an ankle," he deadpans. Fucker. "Just let me bring you back, huh? Take it as a good deed or somethin'. An overdue apology. I kinda- I mean, I do want to talk to you 'bout some things."

Well, they're alone. Unless there's some rogue guest hiding in a bathroom stall, there's no eavesdroppers. What's so private that he couldn't tell her years ago, anyway?

"Then talk," she says.

His brows shoot up. "I'm not doing this in the men's bathroom, Maka. C'mon."

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you talk!" she snaps and stomps her feet like a very mature adult toddler. "You can't make me, you big bully, you can't just barge back into my life and expect me to just- to j-just go along with whatever you say because I miss you. I don't miss you!"

The room's begun spinning again, but that's okay, because it blurs his shape until he's a mash of colors, stark white and jet black, blood-red rapidly zooming into focus. Oh. Or maybe that's Soul, leaning in, and that warm, reassuring heat is his hand on her shoulder. That's… that's less okay, she thinks. But it makes the situation less dire, somehow, and keeps her from wobbling in her heels, but now her face feels hot and her eyes wet and nonono, she's wearing eyeliner, dammit.

"You're being stupid," he says quietly. "You're in no condition to drive."

She sniffles. He's still blurry, but she's still unsure if it's due to the four glasses of wine or the fact that she's probably definitely crying a little now. "You're the stupid one! T-trapping me like this, again-!"

"I didn't give you the wine."

"You didn't drink!" she blurts damply, trembling. Ah- standing is too much, and he's right there, and fuck it, it's a moment of weakness and she just doesn't want to eat it on the men's bathroom floor. Who knows the last time it's been washed. His chest is just right there, and he's certainly not bothered by the mushiness of the world right now. "You- you stayed sober, and you knew I'd be emotional because you're here, so you just let me drink-"

"I- what?"

She snivels. "I hate you," Maka says, then smushes her nose against his nice dress shirt. Good, she can snot it up sufficiently and leave her mark on him, too. "I hate you so much, you don't even know how much I hate you, and I'm not going home with you just so you can get me naked-!"

The embrace shifts from support to something closer to a hug. Ah- but his arms are warm, and certainly more toned than they'd been all those years ago. Melting bonelessly into him is too easy, and in that moment Maka hates herself most of all. If she had the physical strength to shove him away she would, but her balance is off-kilter and she kind of feels woozy now anyways.

He rests his chin atop her head. "Wouldn't do that to you," he mutters. "Not that mean."

"- the meanest!-"

They're swaying, now, and she's not sure who started it but it's happening, and she's too drunk to fight the motion of the ocean. Almost feels like being swaddled and rocked to sleep, and it's weirdly not as invalidating as sober Maka might find it. "This was not an elaborate scheme to fuck you, Maka."

It's a thousand degrees, and his chest is much sturdier than she's prepared to deal with. She wants to plow her hand past the buttons of his shirt and feel his heart, right between her fingers. Wants to crush it in her hand so that he'll understand, too, what it feels like to be strangled. But she doesn't, because skin isn't tissue paper and her nails are supposed to stay nice for tomorrow, dammit, and blood stains. Tearing into Soul Evans like some sort of harpy might not blow over well with the Nakatsukasa clan.

She just wants him to hurt, dammit. To understand.

(And she doesn't, too, in the weirdest, saddest way; she'd spent so many years loving this boy, so many months holding his face in her hands and kissing him through tears- she can't tear him apart, no matter how she hurts.)

"Who do you think you are," she splutters, mushing her face into his chest. She could bite him, maybe. "Wh-who do you think you are, cleaning up your act, being all high and mighty-"

His grip tightens around her. "Can't drink while I'm taking these meds."

Such a deep voice he has. With her face pressed up to him like this, it's like the meaning rumbles through her, from her nose to her toes, and, "Mmm?" she ends up humming, lilting to a confused pitch. Meds?

Meds?

Whatever had still been left, that bare hint of his old, high-strung self deflates, like he'd plucked the string of a guitar, and she squirms, chin pressed to his chest to blink suspiciously up at him. She's met with resigned acceptance, sleepy eyes that flutter as she presses her lips together. And then, dimples.

"C'mon," he mutters, carefully detangling himself from her, still one hand pressed carefully to her shoulder. "I'll drive."

.

Antidepressants.

"Here, wine-o," he calls, and then there's a water bottle lobbed toward her; she cradles it to her chest precariously, the condensation chilly on her bare collarbone. "Drink up. All of it, okay? It'll help."

Antidepressants.

It's not just the wine that makes her stupid, apparently.

Twisting the cap off is difficult, but she manages, somehow, despite her damp hands and the pink way the grooves makes her skin ache. What's even harder, apparently, is aiming for her mouth, and she almost certainly circles the opening of the bottle with her lips in a strange way because Soul's got a teasing smirk now, but whatever, water is water, and Maka would really rather have a clear head, please, because antidepressants.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks through a mouthful, so it's more like glubglubglubglhee? and a wet lap, again, as water leaks through the corners of her lips. She feels childish and stupid, even more so, as Soul sighs, takes a trip into the hotel bathroom and returns with a hand towel to toss at her, too. "Urgh."

How dumb can she be? Like really, seriously, she went to med school. A-and sure, mental health wasn't her specialty, but she should've been able to put two and two together, right? It all seems so clear in hindsight; he'd had all the signs, all the red flags - sleeping too much, not sleeping enough, anxiety, lack of concentration, loss of interest in pleasure or activities. Suddenly, suddenly, his waning interest in everything, her included, and utmost disregard for graduation seems so obvious.

And she was supposed to be the smart one. She went to school for this kind of stuff, dammit. Or… not this exact branch, but still- she'd read the chapters in college, had studied enough to have realized it, even years later, but no. Instead, she'd been so caught up in her own ache, her own heartbreak, and had been too self-centered to see past her own selfish woes. Spiteful Maka could only see the damage on her end, the strain of being pushed aside, let go so easily.

She pinches her lips together now and swallows. Takes a few more gulps, too, until the bottle's empty. If only the poison would dilute more quickly. This is probably a conversation better had with a clear head, and while the drive over had certainly sobered her up some, there is still work left to be done. Finishing her meal to-go had been a good idea, though, and at least the room isn't spinning quite so badly anymore. At least she can safely piece together Soul's words and make sense of them.

Mostly make sense of them. She still hangs onto every last syllable, annoyingly so, as if waiting with bated breath for him to finish. Still stares at his mouth, as if she can read his lips.

Man, those lips. He'd done things to her with those lips, once upon a time. That mouth had been the subject of more than a few dreams of hers, had been his tool to bring her such toe-curling pleasure while they played the waiting game and staved off penetration. If she really thinks about it, drunk Maka can almost remember the way his tongue had felt on the crease of her thigh, her hipbone, the slick heat that'd nearly melted her-

Inappropriate! Stupid wine, making her lewd. Depressed or not, he is still her ex boyfriend, and she is still angry, dammit. The booze just makes her slow on the uptake, and feelings are sort of floaty and fuzzy right now. Everything blurs together. Even the guilt.

"How long?" she finally squeaks out.

He shrugs, then takes a polite seat on the hotel couch, kicking his shoes off. He'd plopped her down on the bed when he'd helped lead her in, fifteen minutes ago, and Maka feels almost bad for assuming this had all been an elaborate scheme to get her out of her dress. Even now, he's still minding his distance, never touching her unless absolutely necessary.

"Soul."

"'Bout three years now?" he says to the ceiling. He cracks his neck, then, and melts back into the seat, mumbling under his breath. "They kept fucking with my dosage, and they switched me through different prescriptions for a while until they found one that worked."

"When'd you start?"

"When I was twenty-two." He takes a deep, cleansing breath and then looks at her thoughtfully. "Wes convinced me to talk to someone 'bout it while we were living together. Guess he got sick of watching me self-medicate with pot. Sat me down and really helped me lay all my cards on the table. I was sick of feeling fucky, too."

Ah. And there'd been that, too. The Soul she'd dated towards the end was high more often than not- in fact, the only time she can really remember him not flying high as a kite were the few times they were intimate. In those moments, he'd been himself - fidgety, balled-up Soul, even as he'd held her in his arms and found it in him to help her over the edge. Still found it in him to be comforting, miraculously, against all odds.

Her eyes burn again. "Soul."

"It's not an excuse," he admits. "'Cause I still hurt you, 'nd like, I get that. Just thought you deserved a reason, Maka. If anyone deserves an explanation, it's you."

"So," she begins, clenching and unclenching her fingers, "so, you… dumped me because you were tired?"

His expression pinches. "I, uh. Didn't want to keep dragging you down."

"What?"

"You were destined for a lot of good," Soul says, eyes still on her, heart-breakingly honest. He's not bound by his demons, not washed over with the heady heat and uselessness of the booze - he's just Soul, and he's finally found his words. "And I wasn't really in any sort of place to support you. I just- god, Maka, I was in a bad place, and you-"

"I wanted you with me," she says fearlessly. "I would've given anything to keep you, Soul. I loved you so much I didn't know what to do with myself."

He smiles then, tight lipped, sad. "I know."

Maka's hands press to her damp lap, towel be damned, and she squints to better see him. He'd flicked the hall lamp on, at least, but hotels have a certain way about amplifying the impossible darkness of 10 PM, and it's ridiculous, how little of him she can make out. She wants to read his expression, overanalyze the way his brows crease, the way he leans forward, too, even without shaggy hair to hide behind. His hair practically glows, the only bright thing among them, and that strange, melancholic smile that she's still too sluggish to fully read.

Annoying. The water's not working fast enough. Reading is all she's really good at, too. "What do you mean you know?"

Soul shrugs. Unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up, sighing, shyly, and she strains to watch the muscles in his forearms in the dark night. Oh, if that lamp were only a little less dim, she might be able to make out the shape of that tattoo she'd spied earlier. Such a nosy, nosy girl.

"I couldn't let you throw it all away," he says, finally, after a long, pregnant pause.

Wine be damned, but- no, no way, had he actually taken that choice away from her and made it himself? "You don't get to make that decision for me!" she gasps, very suddenly enraged, shifting so easily between passive, solemn tipsy and fiery righteousness. This, this is better; Maka knows this, knows how to work through blood-burning anger and stubborn fury, with gritted teeth and tight fists and her everlong fighting spirit.

He at least has the grace to look guilty, now. There's that kicked puppy again, drooping beneath her imposing figure; Maka's bounded to her feet by now, stance firm, hands shaking at her sides.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"You could have asked me!" she shrieks.

"You never listen to reason," says Soul, bitterly. "Never. Even if I had the balls to tell you back then, you would've still forced me to come in that stubborn way of yours. College would have been twice as hard with me slumming it up in your apartment, sleeping all day, unable to hold a fucking job because I couldn't get out of bed."

Tipsy or not, there's not a damn force in the world that can stop her from stomping over to him. He's right in her warpath but he doesn't even budge, just stares at her, ready to accept judgement. Twenty-eight year old Soul wears his damage like a suit of armor, and it's so foreign to her; she's expecting indignance, somehow, more offense, but he's just so deeply resigned that it pisses her off. When Mama and Papa fought, her father had been so quick to point the finger, too, to point out that he wasn't in the wrong, not really, not while his wife was so cold and calculating- but Soul's not like that. Soul is almost too quick to own up to his own level of suck.

So she stops in front of him, trembling, furious. He looks up at her, expression blank but eyes blown wide. There's too much honesty there. It makes her cry. His confession is more sobering than that damn water bottle.

He knows he fucked up, and yet he did it anyway. What a twisted, self-sacrificing bastard. How much more ass backwards can he get?

"Do you have any idea," she starts, falsely quiet, heart pounding, "any idea at all how hard it was for me?"

Soul doesn't even blink. "I thought you'd get over it."

"It?"

"Me," he says finally, grandly. "You'd find another guy who could make you happy without tearing himself apart to do it. Or, fuck- someone who was even half as smart and driven as you were, who could keep up with you."

"But I wanted you!"

He does thaw, though, the longer she cries. And up close, she can finally make out his features; through the leftover lull of the wine and the dim hall light, she can see the lines in his face, exhausted features that have been weathered through years of carrying this sort of weight. This impossible asshole had made himself out to be the bad guy in order to better her life. Or… or what he thought would better her life, anyway.

And he breathes in. "I-"

"No!" she gasps, grabbing his face in her hands. He flails for a moment, before letting her man-handle him, and sits pliantly as she sucks in a breath herself, waiting patiently. "No, you listen to me, you stupid, stupid jerk! I didn't want anyone else. I've never wanted anyone else, do you understand? I'd- there was never anyone else, even after everything, I'd still- you were still-!"

His cheeks are so warm in her hands. His hands over hers, though, are even warmer. "You were going away to college."

"Liz said you didn't feel it when you were with her, didn't she?"

Ah, now his cheeks are even warmer. He sputters for a moment. "I don't see how that's relevant-"

"No one else," she repeats, shaking him gently. Or, uh, what she thinks is gently. He winces, and his throat moves in that interesting, distracting way, and- Adam's Apples really should not be so compelling, goodness. "I couldn't- I tried, but-"

It's so clear Soul wants to know nothing about her sexual exploits post their relationship, and his hands tighten on hers, loosen her grasp and slide her palms down to sit warmly on his shoulders instead. But he has to know, doesn't he? If there's anyone who understands it, the offsetting disinterest in anyone but- but him, apparently, and his hands and thighs and butt and tongue.

Her grip tightens around his shoulders. "I said your name."

Soul makes a gruff, questioning noise. "Wh-?"

"I said your name, you-! I couldn't have a boyfriend because I didn't care about them the same way I cared about you, even though you'd-!" It's so hard to explain, and her tongue feels thick and useless, unable to put the words into any sort of coherent sentence. A shame, for a girl who so prides herself on her literacy. "And when I tried, I just, you know, thought if I closed my eyes it would be fine, and if I got it over with I'd stop being so hung up over you, but I-"

Hands. On her face. Oh, he's touching her, and he hasn't- other than bracing her wobbly booze legs, he hasn't touched her in years, and it sort of makes her want to cry and bite him at the same time. He still treats her as if she's spun glass, still uses only gentle pressure, the softest pads of his fingers to brush away her messy, liner-bled tears.

"You said my name," he repeats, but there's a certain gravel to his voice that really makes the words sink in. Pleased, almost? Is he pleased? Because she can't tell if she is anymore. "Maka, you-"

"It was only once," she mutters, still unable to stop herself. "I'd been drinking, and I was so fed up with everything, and he was a musician, a-and he called me baby and kept asking if I was okay, and I just-! It wasn't anything like being with you, but I was just so lonely and I wanted to stop thinking about you all of the time, so, so-"

Wine makes her too honest. Maybe even Soul can tell that, because he cradles her face in his hands and squishes her cheeks, and it keeps her from admitting anything more - like that it'd been bad, and she'd cried after, had sworn off dating and sex from that point on because there was no point, everything reminded her of him. There was no point, because she didn't feel it unless it was him, and he didn't want her anymore.

"Shhh, hey, hey," Soul murmurs, but his hands are shaking. "It's okay. Easy."

When did he start standing? It's harder to reach his shoulders than she'd anticipated. Oh. Probably has something to do with the fact that she's not wearing her shoes anymore. Maka wiggles her cold toes distractedly, feeling full and warm and stupid and angry, still, dammit.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I didn't want anyone else," Maka mutters dejectedly. "I would have found a way to make it work. I could have helped you, too."

"I'm sorry."

She sniffles, then drops her hands to scrub at her face instead. They come back smudged, and Maka spends an elongated, drunken moment mourning the fate of her eyeliner. Racoon eyes are hardly cute, and here she'd been, thinking all these years that if she got the chance to see Soul Evans again she'd be carefully put together, with flat-ironed hair and sharp eyeliner as she told him exactly where he could shove it-

But reality is tricky sometimes. Can't be foreseen. And she might be a tipsy, inky mess, but he's still looking at her so warmly that she think she might combust. That's what happens, right, when you mix fire and gasoline? Surely he's one and she's the other, and… oh, thinking is still too hard. Wine bad.

"You're always sorry," Maka says, bitterly.

"Mmm," he hums, then cautiously runs his fingers through her hair.

"I'm still angry at you."

"That's fine. I deserve it."

She finds herself blinking up at him damply, wondering if maybe he'll listen to her this time, if maybe he'll take her word for it, because she kind of thinks she knows exactly where he could shove it. The years have been kind, despite the love-lost turmoil. He ages like a fine wine.

Uuugh.

No. No more wine.