"I'm not going to make smoothies," Soul says softly, glancing down at the kitchen floor. "I promise."
Large yellow eyes peer up at him with curiosity, and Blair meows in what he hopes is forgiveness. Even the implication of him pulling the blender onto the counter sends her running into the next room in fear of the noisy machine. During their morning routines, he patiently waits for her to finish breakfast and depart from the kitchen before pouring frozen fruits into the blender.
His nerves drove him out of bed particularly early today, after responding to Maka's aimless text late at night. When he let Blair out of Blackstar's room, the morning had barely begun to descend from the hall skylight. They've been happily existing in each other's company as the sun crept into the kitchen, making breakfast and having their usual one-sided conversations.
Having abandoned her half-eaten bowl, Blair bats at his ankles again in a ploy for attention. He smiles.
"You wanna see what I'm cookin'?" He asks, hands leaving the skillet to scoop her from the ground.
Her small frame and soft fur meld with ease into his palms, and he holds her to his chest as they both survey the eggs frying in the pan. He watches as she smells the steam rising from the yellowed blobs and lightly scratches her ear.
"What do you say little lady-" He props her up on his shoulder as he reaches to turn off the dial on the stovetop. "Should I put in more salt?"
She news almost inaudibly at being spoken to, and he nods in agreement. His hands return to cup her thin back, humming idly as he pets her down her spine. Her tail flicks against his arm.
"I could give you some eggs," He muses sweetly, swaying them as she nudges his face. "But I don't want to upset your tummy."
He's about to reach for the skillet and slide the eggs onto a nearby plate when he feels her freeze in his arms. Her small limbs tense, paws shoving into his chest without warning. After a moment of juggling the wriggly cat, he leans her away from his shoulder to study her with wide eyes.
He frowns, fingers soothing the fluff below her ears. "What's wrong?" He murmurs.
"I think she's scared of me," a voice says from behind them, and Soul jumps at the sound.
He frantically cups Blair to his chest and turns around as they both relax from the sudden tightening of his grasp. He's as wide-eyed as she when they both see Maka has joined them, hovering in the doorway across the wide expanse of Soul's marbled counter.
"Oh!" Soul greets, steadying the sudden spike in his heart rate. "Hi, Maka."
Her hair is soft and brushed, her pajamas are loose-fitting and dark. Though her jetlag is slightly visible under her eyes when she blinks heavily, her voice is warm. "Hi, Soul."
Blair's claws lightly sink into the white fabric on his chest. He knows what Maka's voice sounds like, in the morning, after years of early calls and sleepy mumbling. To see the slight flush on her cheeks, the vague bleariness in her wandering eyes- Soul can't believe how long he's been robbed of such a beautifully mundane sight.
"You're awake and in my kitchen." He says.
Maka gives him a smile. "I am both of those things."
Soul glances back at the stove. "I didn't know when you'd be up, so I was just cooking for myself." His eyes return to Maka in an instant. "I can make you something though, if you'd like."
Maka shakes her head, moving closer to the counter. "I'm not all that hungry yet, but thank you."
"Are you sure?" He pushes, "I can easily-"
His attention snaps down to Blair when Maka tugs a chair tucked below the center island, as she flinches once again in his arms. The threat of Maka, it seems, radiates even from plenty of feet away.
"Hey, hey," Soul mutters, relaxing his hold to ease the small bundle of fur in his palms. "It's alright. Just relax."
Blair seems to keep a wary eye on the stranger at their counter, while she lets Soul hook his touch under her shoulders. She's lifted into the air until her paws stretch out above him in resignation.
"There you go." Soul's nose scrunches when a pawful of pink toes is squished against his face. As he lowers her with a fond grin, he assures, "Don't be scared. Maka is nice, I swear."
He spares a quick look to see Maka watching the spectacle with an amused expression. His face warms.
"Very cute," Maka says, and the ambiguity of who the statement is directed towards is sure to haunt Soul for a millennium.
He clears his throat. "Do you want to pet her?"
"You think she'll let me?" Maka questions, hopeful.
Soul shifts Blair in his arms. "Maybe."
He readjusts his hands so she can easily leap away if need be, and makes his way around the large counter. Maka rises from the low-backed chair she's sunken into and waits patiently as they approach. Focusing on the warmth of fur in his hands instead of the nerves in his chest, the distance decreases between them.
The whites of his socks leave inches of sleek floorboards before Maka's feet. Soul is close enough to peer down at the light splatter of freckles that rise just above the scoop of her shirt, without meaning to. He carefully leans Blair lower to accommodate for the difference in height.
His eyes linger on Maka's face, before falling to the warm cat in his arms.
"Slowly," Soul says, voice low, "lift your hand. She seems pretty curious today, so you should be fine."
He tips Blair's head towards Maka, who follows his instructions with deep concentration. Her wrist rises; her fingers reach. When the foreign touch lowers and connects with her mottled fur, Soul notices they're both holding their breath.
Maka exhales, and the billow of soft air glides across Soul's forearms. She pets down the space between Blair's ears; she doesn't stir. Patient, and cautious, the house seems to be locked in a standstill with nothing moving besides Maka's slender hand down her back.
"See?" Soul breathes, as Maka's fingernails accidentally graze his chest. "She's not so bad."
Softly, Maka greets, "Hi, Blair."
When she meows quietly in return, Soul has to cast his eyes up to the high ceiling before his heart melts. Her approval matters far more than he'd anticipated. When his gaze floats back down, he steals a glance at Maka's expression, as she pets Blair with a keen fondness he's never seen before.
She shifts in Soul's arms, and Maka is quick to draw her hand away at the first sign of discomfort. Her curious eyes leap between Soul and Blair, seemingly apologetic for alarming her.
"She probably just wants to get down," Soul explains, the warmth in his voice hushed, and fleeting.
Maka relaxes visibly. "Ah, okay."
Soul leans over to let her step out of his arms and onto the cool counter. She stretches on the stone in a theatrical manner, paws splayed out, before laying down in front of Maka's chair.
Free from her distracting adorability, Soul returns to the stove. He scraps his scrambled breakfast onto a plate of sausage links, the cold ceramic combating how warm his hands had grown in proximity to Maka. The task of handling his food seems more pressing now, with the obvious surveillance he can feel on the back of his head. He plucks bread from the toaster and resists the urge to adjust messy strands of his hair.
"I think she likes me." Maka pipes up from behind him.
He glances over his shoulder to see Blair sitting on the counter, as Maka runs careful fingers over her back. She seems content in her company, unmoving and purring lightly.
Soul turns back to his plate, smiling. "Of course she does."
"Of course?" Maka echoes hesitantly.
Thankful he's facing away from the island, Soul winces at the transparency in his own voice. His head aches with the number of responses his intrepid tongue wants to say. Everyone likes you, or, what's not to like? Or, she has the same taste as me.
"I told you she's sweet." He settles on casually.
His heart thumps in the silence that follows. In his hands, the toast is warm, the knife is cold; the butter spreads with ease.
"So how did you sleep?" He asks.
"Very well, thank you," Maka answers.
The sound lingers in the kitchen's ambiance. Their joint politeness is abnormal, to say the least, and Soul despises it. Reserved greetings and shallow words that he's learned to have patience for are nearly even worse in person. He isn't sure how to navigate what would shatter the brittle ice between them; he isn't sure Maka wants to shatter it at all.
"Is Blackstar up?" Maka asks after a moment of nonresponse.
"No, not yet." Soul glances at the digital numbers on the oven's clock. "He probably will be up in about an hour or so."
"Oh," Maka says, "Alright."
Soul's fingers glide idly over the sun-spotted countertop, as he tugs open the silverware drawer in search of utensils. His busy hands rattle unnecessarily through several before drawing one from the compartment. Immediately, he begins to fiddle with the metal, and winces as the reflected light from the windows briefly pierces his eyes.
"How was your week together?" Maka asks, and Soul feels a smile tug on his features.
The question is nice and amicable, but what he hones in on is Maka's strange persistence to fill their silence. He turns with the plate cupped in his palm and sunk the prongs of his fork into the mess of steaming eggs.
"It's been really fun," He answers earnestly. "We actually managed to cram a lot into it, so it passed by super quickly." He blows on a clump of egg, before musing, "Though I do wish he brought his setup, or something, 'cause he kept complaining about using his laptop the whole time."
He chews contemplatively and sends a silent thought of approval Blair's way. The smell is rich, the sun from the sink's window is warm on his back, and it hadn't needed more salt after all.
"That's not really what I meant," Maka says, and Soul's absentmindedness is cut to shreds with one sharp glance upwards.
Maka's brows are drawn together; guarded and wary. Her hand has withdrawn from Blair's belly and rests in a loose fist on the speckled countertop. The only clue Soul is given to know Maka isn't upset is the gentle rise and fall of her small shoulders.
He lowers his fork to rest on the lip of the plate. "What did you mean?"
"You know," Maka says, and her eyes briefly skitter away from Soul's face to return moments later.
Nervousness? Soul feels his pulse race at the revelation. Is she nervous?
"How is it, having him here?" Maka continues gently, blinking slowly. "How… have you been?"
Soul's breath catches in his chest. Quietly he says, "Oh."
He carefully rests his plate on the counter beside him. The seconds that pass weigh on him heavily, as they stare at each other from across the empty kitchen. His hands find the marble on either side of him for support.
His heart thumps as he gazes at Maka. "You… want to talk about it?"
You want to do this now?
"Sure." Maka's voice is soft, and her brows tip up slightly. "Why not?"
Soul's throat tightens. He clears it quickly and lets his eyes fall away as he wipes his palms on his sweats.
"Okay," he says. His attention wanders over Maka's expression as it opens, slightly. "Um, okay."
Where do I start?
"Well, yeah, Blackstar has really helped me out," Soul chooses cautiously. "More than I thought he would, he… he's always there even when I don't ask him to, y'know?" He lets out a huff. "I think it's been a lot healthier between us lately. Much less dependant, I guess, even though I'm more present than I used to be."
Maka nods. After a moment, she pushes, "And you?"
Soul regards her with wide eyes. "I uh- I've been good. Really." He takes a breath and swallows away any lingering unease. "This kind of stuff is never linear, but… I feel like I can always tell when the weight of my life is tipping upwards."
Or, he thinks, when it's tipping towards you.
"So yeah," he continues, repeating, "good. I've been good. I mean, as good as I can be."
They let the sincerity of his words float, dipping through stray sunbeams and the egg-scented air. In a farther room on the first floor, Soul can hear when the air conditioning kicks to life. A chill is quick to invade the sharp corners and cabinets of the kitchen.
Soul meets her eyes again, and dares to ask, "What about you? How have you been?"
The question is soft, and the answer is surprisingly simple.
"As good as I can be," Maka says.
Soul lets out a sigh.
He'd expected as much. After all, Maka once responded 'yikes' to a long-winded rant about an unfortunate sibling fight with Wes that left Soul feeling guilty for two weeks. He knows better than to mistake Maka's simplicity for apathy.
Yet, as he readies himself to move past it, his head stalls. He thinks of the beige walls and the white couches, the tissues on Dr. Stein's table, and the blurred image of the ticking clock.
Honest, he thinks, Be honest. I know how.
He draws his hands away from the counters and wrings his fingers together in front of him. His eyes dart away from Maka's face.
Quietly, he asks, "Do you think you could give me a little more than that, Maka?"
He hears a short exhale, and his gaze leaps to Maka's expression. Slight shock seems to be tugging at her eyebrows and lashes, fraying the curtain of complacency she's hid herself behind.
"We haven't spoken in a while," Soul continues. His voice, though firm, doesn't dare to increase in volume. "And the last time we really talked you… you seemed very overwhelmed and upset with me."
Maka blinks. "Because I was."
I think it's too much, he remembers Maka whispering. I think it might be too much.
"I know, trust me." Soul's laced fingers tighten and he feels his appetite slipping the more he hacks at the frost between them. "Are you still?"
You're too much, I need space, I need time; Soul remembers Maka saying that too.
"No," Maka answers flatly.
Soul's nails dig crescents into his knuckles. "Well good," he breathes. "That's good."
Stubborn as always; distant as always. Soul lets himself wait a few hopeful seconds, before ultimately giving up the moment he knows he won't be forcing any more words out of Maka. He glances at the counter at his side, and the plate of food he'll drive himself to eat, no matter how uninviting it may seem.
Careful to keep any signs of tiredness from his all too readable voice, Soul mutters, "I'm glad to hear that."
A beat of tense silence passes. His eyes pass over his breakfast, watching the fork as if he expects it to move on its own while knowing Maka is watching him.
"I…I didn't mean to upset you, by asking." Maka says quietly.
Soul's eyes flutter shut. He's steeled his voice so Maka wouldn't pick up on his frustration, but had forgotten he can't simply hide behind his Discord icon anymore.
He lets out a breath, then tries to say, "Maka-"
"You asked me, um," Maka interrupts with strength, but tapers when Soul's eyes are on her again. "You asked how I've been. And I…I've been…" She clears her throat. "I've been taking a lot of pictures lately. A lot of them."
"You…" Soul slowly frowns in confusion. "What?"
"I don't mean like stupid photos on my phone," Maka continues hurriedly, glancing anywhere but Soul's face. "I bought a really nice camera after doing a ton of research, and got in touch with an old teacher of mine, and have been meeting with her sometimes to-to discuss them." Her voice lightens. "And learn how to get better."
Soul stares at her with flooded disbelief.
Photographs?
He thinks of all the house he's spent listening to Maka muse over cinematic shots, editing, lighting, composition, and lenses. He remembers chatting with her as a teenager when Maka was in taking college courses while still in High school; how excited she'd been by the professor's photography-related course, and studying outside of her STEM classes for once. It falls into place alongside her other unveiled mysteries seamlessly.
Soul gives her a curious smile. Softly, he asks, "Really?"
He can't convince himself that the light dusting of pink that settles on Maka's cheeks isn't real.
"Yeah, it's… it's something I've always wanted to do, but for some reason, I didn't let myself," she explains, and it doesn't look as though she's fighting her apparent anxiousness anymore. "I thought it'd be a waste of time, or I wouldn't be any good, and now I've been outside a lot more and actually enjoying it and-" A short breath escapes her lips, ad her bright eyes meet Soul halfway. "It sounds dumb. I know it sounds dumb, but I'm reconnecting with this thing I never thought I'd go back to."
Soul doesn't know if this is where he's supposed to speak, to be supportive, and utter words of encouragement or praise like he knows Maka appreciates. He leans into his speechlessness.
After a quiet moment, to his soaring heart's approval, Maka speaks up again.
"It has to do with thinking a little less," she says, reaching to resume gliding a hand through Blair's fur, "And feeling more."
A stunned beat falls over them. He imagines Maka, with a dark camera and soft cloths, carefully wiping away dust and storing it in a long strapped bag she undoubtedly keeps clean. Does she pull her knees to her chest, when sitting in her desk chair, downloading programs and editing photographs late at night? What does the world look like, through her lens?
"You do think a lot." Soul says, warm with encouragement.
Maka's eyes flick up to meet him. "I do."
She seems uneasy at the privacy of what she'd detailed to Soul as if she's never spoken of it to anyone else until their kitchen morning. It's hardly an answer to the question of 'how have you been' at first glance, but she'd offered a part of herself up. She's tried, and it's more than either of them has done in weeks.
Soul gives her a reassuring smile. "Busy brain."
"I have the busy brain?" Maka echoes, but she's beginning to smile through her words.
"Maka," Soul says, "when have I ever had a thought in my life?"
Maka pretends to consider it before uttering, "True."
Soul laughs, and the sound makes Maka's smile grow into a grin. His eyes pass over the whites of her teeth, the shine in her eyes, and he swears for a moment they're studying each other with the same curiosity and admiration. He's never felt closer to someone than on calls with Maka thousands of miles away, and as warm morning slips into day, he wonders how he still feels so close to her from across the wide room.
"So," Soul says finally, grabbing his plate and leaning on the island before him. "What in the world do you take photos of?"
"Buy them."
Soul turns his attention away from the shelf of aluminum cans, to see Blackstar holding a large box of goldfish between his palms. Curled on his face is a daring grin as if they don't already have two boxes of orange crackers sitting in the pantry at home. It's the same as the last time Soul dragged him to the store of white fluorescents and green banners; he picks out the produce, asks Blackstasr for input, and it met with proposals for crap food as always.
"No." Soul says.
Blackstar shakes the rattling snack in a flash of orange and white, irritatingly close to Soul's ear. "Buy them."
"You're so annoying, no," He dismisses, nudging the box away.
He takes their squeaking shopping cart out of Blackstar's way to prevent him from dropping the item inside. Lifting his eyes to scan the stretch of reflective linoleum, he frowns.
"Where did Maka go?"
Blackstar shrugs. "Last I saw, she was in the frozen food section." He drops a can of baked beans into the cart as they slowly travel down the row. "I think."
Soul stops. "You lost her?"
"Relax, Dad," he drawls, readjusting the black ball cap that hugs his blue hair. "We're in a grocery store, not some giant theme park."
Soul stares at him. "I told you," he says slowly, "it's okay to admit you want to go to Six Flags, Star. I can easily figure out"
"I don't want to go to Six Flags," Blackstar says quickly. "Stop asking me about it."
Soul scoffs. "Okay, then stop bringing it up."
"What?" He turns his back to Soul as if his denial is indiscernible. "How am I bringing it up?"
Soul rolled his eyes. "Just this morning, you made that joke about the waffles-"
"They looked like gocarts on her plate," He defends. "I was making an observation-"
"And the other day with the 'roller coasters are so much fun, Soul, don't you think?'" Soul mimics, in a tone that more closely resembles Blackstars voice cracks at thirteen.
I didn't say it like that," Blackstar complains, "And I was just asking if you liked them, that's all."
His gaze narrows. Blackstar doesn't need to ask his opinions on them; the first time they'd met was at the entrance of Universal as middle schoolers. Blackstar's family had flown to California for a summer vacation and coordinated with Soul's mother to schedule a surprise for both of them. They spent the awkward but entirely memorable day together, in the company of siblings and churros and hot sun. They'd been scared shitless, then, to ride anything that went upside down.
Soul's interrogatory expression softens after a beat of silence. "I can get tickets, like, tomorrow," he says. "All you have to do is ask-"
As they reach the end of the row, a slender hand grabs onto the front of the cart and halts their snails-pace immediately.
"Can you believe," Maka interrupts, "they sell thirty-two packs of turkey burgers?" She holds up the meat encased in plastic. "Who would ever need this many?"
An earnest smile leaps onto Soul's face at the sight of her.
After their warm morning of catching up and what felt like pulling teeth to make Maka talk about her camera hobby, Soul felt a grocery run should be in order. Blackstar came downstairs, corralled Maka into making fun of Soul's overly detailed food list, and their day commenced.
Sparsely populated aisles, the faint smell of misted produce; their cross-country visitor has embodied wonder from the moment they stepped into the store full of food.
"You picked the good kind, Maka," He observes warmly. "Nice job."
Maka brightens and tosses the patties to Blackstar, who reads over the ingredients.
"Oh my," he praises, "originally seasoned." His brows tip up in an obvious mimicry of Soul's buttery approval.
Maka smiles quizzically. She turns away without catching the pointed glare Soul tosses at Blackstar. The burgers are dropped into the cart, Soul reaches to neatly arrange them into the corner between shiny cans and sesame buns, and they move on to the next aisle.
"What else did you find?" Soul asks, watching with amusement as Maka scrutinizes the products lining the shelves.
"So much food in bulk," she says, "and oh! Oh my god." Maka hurries ahead of them and plucks an item from the shelf. "What the hell is this?"
She extends an arm forward, presenting the squeezable bottle of cheese with disgusted intrigue. Soul gags.
"Okay, nobody actually eats that," Blackstar says.
Maka tips it back and forth in suggestion. "Maybe we should try it."
Soul winces. "No way. I have bad memories of cheese-whiz."
The yellow abomination is returned to the shelf at once, nestled next to various dips and aerosol cans under the same brand.
"You ate a lot of weird food when you were younger," Maka muses.
"I turned out fine." Soul says defensively.
Maka gives him a concerned once-over. "Uh-huh."
Soul can't help but smile at the back of Maka's head as she wanders down the aisle. With the shopping car rolling slowly in his hands, the distance between them increases, and Blackstar lags to join him.
An unexpected blow lands on Soul's shoulder. "Stop smiling like that," Blacklist reprimands. "You look weird."
Soul's fingers raise to knead the sore muscle on his arm. "Ouchie," he says.
Blackstar jabs him again without pause.
"Don't touch me," Soul scolds, reaching out to flick the bill of Blackstar's hat and grinning when he blinks rapidly because of it. "You flinched."
"Wee, waa, 'don't touch me,'" Blackstar mocks, shoving a hand into Soul's face, smushing against his cheek and stubbled jaw.
"Oh, gross." Soul pushes his fingers away, voice pitching. "When was the last time you washed your hands, man?"
"Right after I got done banging your-"
Soul hooks his arm easily around Blackstar's neck, roughly bending his shoulders down as he knocks off his hat to make a mess of his hair. "You've met her, you can't say that-"
Blackstar's fingers bat helplessly at Soul's arms. "Ow, ow, let go of me."
"Fuckijng shortie," Soul says through a sharp smile, successfully turning his blue locks into a static frenzy. "Cut your hair."
"Cut your hair," Blackstar spits, before a harsh elbow sinks into Soul's stomach and tears a puff of air from his ribs.
He lets go of Blackstar, clutching his gut while he doubles over in recovery. He coughs heavily, and rasps, "You bastard."
Blackstar sinks to the floor in panting triumph and leans his head against the shelf behind him. Bottles rattle, he runs a hand through his hair self-consciously and retrieves his ball-cap from the tile floor.
They both ignore the elderly stranger who stares at them from the end of the row, before leaving the scene with disapproval.
Maka re-enters the aisle to see Soul with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling while Blackstar huffs occasionally at the dust they'd both inhaled. The cart is corner first into a display of chips, with a few bags accidentally scattered on the floor in their scuffle.
"Uh," Maka says, "you alright?"
Blackstar gives her a brief nod as he gets to his feet, and retrieves the cart. Soul straightens up and sees Maka's confused expression and the absurdly large pack of ramen in her hands.
He points at the noodles. "Don't buy those."
Maka studies the brand, the looks up at Soul as he comes closer. "Why not?"
"That kind is disgusting, Maka." He says. He mindlessly claps a hand on her small shoulder as he passes by, used the physicality after the last scramble of minutes. "They'll make your guts fall right out of you."
It isn't until he's at the end of the aisle, surveying the wide expanse of the back of the store, when he realizes his hand is tingling where it'd collided with Maka's collarbone. He briefly flexes his fingers; his palm had cupped so easily over her shoulder, touched so briefly to the warmth radiating from her jacket.
He turns back just in time to see Maka glance at his hand, then to his face.
Maka smiles, and echoes, "They'll… what?"
Soul clears his throat and curls one palm in a vertical 'o' shape while gesturing vaguely beneath the tube his fingers created. "Right out," he repeats.
"Is that… is that meant to be someone shitting?"
A pained look crosses Soul's face. "Yeah."
Maka studies him with a scrupulous look, that only wavers with an amused twitch of her flat mouth. "Let's see that again, then," she says, nodding to Soul's hands. "Come on."
"You're an idiot." Soul dismisses.
Blackstar bumps Maka with the shopping cart, tearing her attention away. "He's right, though." He pulls a face at the low-quality ramen in Maka's hands. "Got put 'em back."
Maka grumbles a low-breathed remark that neither of them catches, and as she leaves, Blackstar dumps the responsibility of the cart back onto Soul.
As he walks past him, he says, "You suck at flirting."
"What?" Soul whips his head to stare wildly at the back of Blackstar's shoulders, as they rise and fall with candid laughter. "What?"
Eventually, once rejoined with Maka again, Soul scrutinizes their cart of accumulated goods. His elbows are leaned into the handlebar, pushing the cart along lazily as they meander down the aisle. The list has long since been scratched off, although Soul keeps insisting they're missing something and Blackstar is sent wandering to find it.
"We need to get some real food, next time." Soul mutters, glancing down at the looming purchases. "This is all crap."
"South-West crap," Maka corrects. She's trailing in front of him, idly nudging small bottles and bright boxes on the shelf that draw her attention.
"You're telling me you can't get, what is this-" Soul reaches into the organized pile, and withdrawals a boxed item. "Yummy dino-buddy nuggets in Ohio?"
Maka sends a disappointed frown over her shoulder. "The Dinosaurs are born and raised in Nevada, Soul."
"Oh," Soul says, voice heavy with false seriousness, "my bad. I don't visit Vegas as often as I should then." He slots the box into their organized collection of junk. "I honestly didn't think I could get more concerned about your diet than I already was. But this is a new level, for sure."
Maka rolls her eyes. "Right. I forgot you've been on a health craze recently." When Soul doesn't respond, she turns around and clarifies, "Blackstar told me about it a little while ago."
Soul exhales. "Of course he did."
Maka peers at him briefly, "You have a really expressive face, did you know that?"
"What?"
"Like that right there, yeah." Maka smiles. "I wasn't expecting it." After a pause, she adds, "Heart on your sleeve, and all that."
Though his stature is relaxed, slumped over the cart and languidly nudging it along, his pulse drums heavy in his chest. "What, did you think I'd be some stone-faced, unreadable guy?"
Maka shrugs. "Maybe."
Soul's eyes scrape the banners swaying in the air-conditioned breeze overhead, the bright lights glinting off the sleek surfaces and rebounding on the tile floor. The fluorescents wash over the bomber jacket Maka had insisted on bringing, which she smugly reminded Soul of when the refrigerated aisle brought chills to his exposed forearms. With her clean hair, squeaky shoes, and curious hands, she seems strangely at ease in exploring the store from Soul's corner of the world.
"I thought you'd be a lot more-" Maka starts, then cuts off abruptly.
Soul perks up. "A lot more what?"
"Nothing." Maka tugs an unnecessary bottle of hot sauce from the shelf and tosses it into the cart. "It's not important."
Soul pulls out the plastic container and returns it to the row once he's reached its spot of absence. "Maka," He pushes, "tell me."
Maka says nothing.
"Oh, come on." Soul stops the cart. "You know that is going to drive me nuts."
Once the subtle squeaking of running wheels has come to a halt, Maka turns around. She lowers a hand to clasp at the metal grate on the front end of the basket.
"We're on a time crunch," Maka says, even though they're not. She tugs on the wired basket; Soul grips the sides so it doesn't move.
Soul gives her the most patient, irritatingly positive smile he can manage. Though charming, his grin is clear; he's not going to let this go.
Maka rolls her eyes. "Fine. I thought you'd be more-" She flails her hands vaguely in the air, in no discernable pattern.
Soul lets go of the cart and imitates her. "What does this mean?"
"More-more close, in my face," Maka stammers. "I don't know!"
His amused expression spreads, and his voice is saturated with blatant confidence, as he repeats, "In your face."
"More annoying," Maka says sharply.
Soul smiles. "Uh-huh."
Painfully bright under the dangling lamps, crowded by long rows of assorted food-their conversation is nearly nonsensical. Maka glances down at where the metal bars bite into her pale fingers. At the opposite end of the cart, separated by an unspoken barrier, Soul does the same.
Nearly.
"Does it upset you that I'm not more… annoying?" he asks.
Maka quickly lets go of the cart. "No, of course not. I wouldn't say that at all."
"Okay." Soul swallows, hoping his pinched brows and tense lips don't betray him. "Because I can be if you want me to."
I can be close. I can be touchy.
Maka's eyes list to meet his. Though the casualty of their gaze in the midst of the grocery aisle shouldn't hold weight, it does.
"I'm not…" Soul trails, searching Maka's face. "I'm not going to mess this up."
He watches Maka's eyes widen when the word 'this' leaves his mouth. They've hardly acknowledged 'this,' them, the force that seems to squeeze the air out of his lungs and give him life to breathe at the same time.
Slowly, Maka says, "I don't know what you mean."
Soul is sure his expression breaks open at the immediate sting of Maka's words. His throat tightens; his eyes narrow. Maka from their soft morning in the kitchen is suddenly lost before him now, the change occurring so rapidly he'd almost missed it. Her face is blank in what Soul realizes is a ploy; hollow, self-protective, and dishonest.
"Yes, you do," Soul counters. The edge in his tone causes Maka's expression to solidify further.
She turns away from Soul. "I don't want to talk about this."
Soul leans off of the cart, hands falling to grip the place where his lax elbows had rested prior. The plastic, cold in his fingers, creaks slightly.
"You wanted to this morning." He says, low.
'Yeah, because we were in your house, not the middle of the grocery store." Maka halts to face him again, with a half whisper, "Not exactly the best place to ambush me, Soul."
Soul stares at her wildly. "I didn't ambush you. You brought up your expectations, not me." His voice grows tight. "Are you seriously still going to act like this?"
Maka's cold anger is evident. Her reiteration is terrifyingly quiet. "Like what?"
The closeness that's been growing from the moment they embraced at the airport terminal spirals, quickly, into their sleeping conflict. Soul draws in a steadying inhale and chases what's been started.
"Like I'm- I'm this stumbling idiot who forces you into every bad situation," He says. "It's exhausting, and it doesn't make me feel good about myself, and-" He runs a trembling hand through his hair. "It'd be nice if you took some responsibility, for once. That's all."
"Where is this coming from?" Maka questions, voice pitching with strain.
"Where is it- oh my god," Soul breathes. He steps around the side of the cart, and a foot closer to Maka's rigid stance in the aisle. "Really? You can't think of any reason I might feel this way?"
Soul searches her face desperately for any sign of life. He wants to reach out, and his chest aches.
Maka's voice, though flat, almost seems like an invitation for Soul to step closer. "No."
His hand finds the side of the cart for support, as he peers down at her.
"How about when you called me, Maka?" He asks in a murmur. "What happened then?"
Maka's defense slips immediately. Her clenched jaw falls open as her lips part helplessly, and her gaze drops to the floor.
"We said we wouldn't talk about that."
Soul's grip on the metal bars tightens at the defeat in Maka's voice.
It must have been in late July or early August. On an offline call with their friends, quick jabs devolved into blunt insults and jokes taken too far. Many friends were tired, tensions were high, and all it took was one comment from Maka for the hounds to be sicced on Soul.
He left the call, seething and wounded. Yet what genuinely hurt him wasn't the tough night with friends that was patched with a couple of messages the morning after- it was when his phone started to ring. It was when he picked up.
"Maka," He'd said. The darkness of his room amplified the hollowness in his voice. "What are you doing?"
"Hey, are you okay?" Maka asked immediately, rushing, "They shouldn't have said those things at all, and I didn't mean to encourage them. I'm really sorry."
Against the warm screen, he muttered. "It's alright. I'll be fine."
"Really, I just- I just expected everyone to be yelling and it got way out of hand, and I-"
"I said I'll be fine," Soul interrupted sharply. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, voice angry, and tentative, and tired. "Talk to you tomorrow. Okay?"
A beat of silence passed through the phone line. He considered hanging up then, safe in the quiet and promise of sleep. He should've listened to himself, he should've hung up.
"Can… can you stay on, for a bit?" Maka asked softly. "Can we just… talk?"
His chest began to burn. "Maka."
In the night, the whispers seemed so fragile, so inviting- almost like they could pretend she was there beside him. "Please, Soul."
"Stop," He warned. "Stop that."
I just want to hear your voice." Maka pleaded, her voice small enough to disappear.
"Don't say that," He let out a heavy breath, head tipping back to collide with his chair cushion. "What is wrong with you?"
"...I'm sorry."
He listened to the quiet panting that fell on both sides of the line, chest heavy with a pained warmth that only Maka could elicit. The darkness and muddled words embraced their call like an old friend, and his eyes screwed shut.
"You know I miss you," Soul murmured, with audible strain. "You know I can't- can't-" His ears rang with the sound of Maka's breath clipping. "Fuck, Maka, why are you doing this to me?"
Instead of an answer, she said, "I sh-should go."
"You should."
Soul pulled the phone from his ear, waiting to hear the final chime that signaled the call was over. Yet, Maka lingered, and it kept him from reaching to press the red button himself. An unspoken comfort lay in the quiet; reveling in each other's presence during a summer drought.
The seconds of silence grew and grew, until Maka finally asked quietly, "Can we not talk about this? Can we pretend this phone call didn't happen?"
"Okay, Maka," Soul muttered, defeated and empty, "Whatever you want."
They disconnected without any trace of amicable goodbyes.
Now, plenty of ugly nights and long weeks later, he steps closer to Maka in the grocery aisle as an unconcerned passerby skirts around their cart and conflict. He looms over her, wishing he could melt the bristling anger from her green eyes, and wishes he had it in himself to be angry too.
"You called me," Soul recounts, even though he can tell Maka remembers it as vividly as he. "You talked to me." He lets out a short, frustrated breath. "Then you got mad at me the next morning, and iced me out."
He remembers that string of texts he'd woken up to; how Maka's confrontation bordered on hostility. Soul let himself be chewed out because nothing was worth losing the Nevada visit the three of them had scarcely slotted into their tumultuous lives. It is so much easier to tiptoe around eggshells online. It is so much harder to ignore, in person, the memory of Maka's voice in the dead of night.
"Because you let it happen," Maka says, but she looks more vulnerable than before.
Soul stares down at her. "So it's all on my shoulders," He reiterates flatly. "It's all my responsibility now?"
"Yes," Maka spits, her sharpness startling them both. She meets Soul's gaze, unwavering, and recollects herself with a deep breath. "Yes. Because you made it your responsibility when you sent me that text."