"Yes. Because you made it your responsibility when you sent me that text."
Soul's body leans away from Maka before he's aware of its movement; bated breath locked in his chest, the sole of his shoe dragging backwards on linoleum, lips parting in a wordless recoil. His face is hot with shame.
The text.
Maka said it as if he wouldn't remember, as if they hadn't picked it apart piece by piece over the phone, and Soul hadn't apologized enough times or spent weeks trying to make up for it.
It's harsh to bring it up now. He knows Maka knows it, as her cold expression changes to a fresh face of regret for her own words. Maka's mouth opens, the words sink, and Soul sees it again; the strange, softened look of an apology that writes itself across her face. It's not nearly enough to make him forget the accusation lingering in the air.
Neither of them reaches to take it back, and it strikes Soul again in a would half-healed.
You can't unwrite it, Soul. His chest aches in recollection. Do you want to be stuck in the past, or do you want to move forward?
"That-" Maka's voice wavers. "That came out wrong."
Soul stares at her, and utters, "Did it."
"Hey Soul," Blackstar's loud greeting tears into their aisle without warning, "have we tried this kind-"
Their attention races to see him as he halts, several feet away, with a carton of juice in his hands and eyes growing wide. Soul swears he is best friends with an over-observant sponge of a man because Blackstar seems to soak up the high-strung discomfort in the air immediately.
"Oh." He clears his throat. "Sorry. I was just- sorry."
He sways the carton in his hands awkwardly, eyes jumping between Soul and Maka. The juice sloshes against the paperboard.
For a moment, no one speaks. Soul has to remind himself they're here, in the grocery store, not in a place for reactions and impulsivity.
"Again, with the orange juice," He observes stiffy. "Why do you keep buying that if you don't drink it?"
Blackstar frowns. "I do drink it."
"No, you don't. I drink it."
"I'll drink some of it," Maka offers. She's still speaking quietly.
Blackstar gestures dramatically at her and crosses between them to place it in the cart. "This is definitely the last thing we needed."
He seems to be the only one moving when he pulls his phone fro his pocket to check the time. Maka is averting Soul's eyes; Soul is still reeling from the emotional upchuck they'd throw in each other's faces.
"...We can go now." Blackstar clarifies slowly.
"Fine by me," Maka mutters. Her voice sounds empty, any trace of irritation having vanished entirely by the time she tucks her hands into her jacket pockets.
My responsibility, Soul thinks, as he rearranges the juice and glances over their food one last time. My text. My destruction. My fault.
He mumbles an agreement to finally check out.
When they move to the register, Blackstar tosses a quick, concerned look his way- all pinched brows and not-so-subtle glancing toward Maka- and he can only shake his head dismissively in return. His thoughts are still buzzing between their unexpected outburst and the fluorescent lights.
It's not all mine, though. Right? He side–eyes Maka, who is entirely rapt in whatever magazine Blackstar is making her look at, and frowns. I know that. She has to know that.
Entirely mute, he tries to focus on bagging groceries. The beeping from the checkout piles up, boxes and chilled plastic into reusable bags, and he tears the receipt from the machine with more force than is needed.
He's always been bad at picking fights. Jumping first, spilling too much, only to recount and rethink later. He knows how to be careful when they're dealing with life from a distance, but in this suffocating proximity and grocery aisles of lives they don't share, his heart wants to start fires to feel warm.
Maka has always been good at making him feel cold.
He feels his chest tighten. Quick fights, and angry whispers- is this the only way they know how to talk to each other now? What happened to June?
I ruined it, he reminds himself, and a scowl crosses his features. No. No. I'm past this, don't go back.
He avoids meeting Maka's eyes as they haul bags into the trunk of the car. Pricks of guilt give way to low fury.
I didn't pick this one all on my own.
When settling into the driver's seat, the passenger door shuts, and he's surprised to see Maka has placed herself there.
Blackstar wraps his knuckles against the glass from outside. "I don't think so Mak's."
"You had it on the way here," Maka defends.
Soul slides his buckle into place and refuses to glance to his right. Why does she want to sit next to me?
"Nuh-uh," Blackstar muffles through the glass.
"Yeah-huh,"
Soul twists the keys in the ignition and raises his voice to ask, "Do you want the ice cream we just bought to melt?" He locks the doors. "Get in the car."
Blackstar relents and falls back to tug on the door handle to the backseat. The tell-tale thump of his pull being unsuccessful makes Soul smile down at the gearshift as he eases off the parking brake.
"Ha-ha," Blackstar says, repeatedly yanking on the locked door, "Open up."
Maka laughs quietly, Soul bats amused eyes at an irritated Blackstar crochet by the car's window and releases the locks. He can pretend the small shuffle of Maka's seat and light bickering when Blackstar gets in that this is normal, it's the three of them, a casual afternoon in September that doesn't hurt at all.
The Maka asks if she can plug in her phone, and Soul says 'yes,' and his knuckles graze Maka's fingertips when he hands her the cord.
The smile falls from his face.
Because Maka's hands are cold like her expression and voice had been in the store. She doesn't seem to notice, connects her phone, tosses a remark back to Blackstar- and Soul watches her operate like a terrifying machine. She seems fine, awkward, and calm as always, but fine.
Why? Soul switches to reverse and navigates out of the parking lot. Why is she so good at hiding?
"Mind if I play some music?" Maka asks, scrolling through her phone continuously.
Has she always been this good?
"Go ahead," Soul mutters.
He focuses intently on the road before them. Often enough, he despises his own attention to detail. If he could be ignorant of Maka's chameleon-like behavior, perhaps he wouldn't have to pick up on every slight shift and sound that sits at the edge of his vision.
"I added a couple of things to that playlist you sent me," Maka says, the words angled to land behind her shoulder. "It was already good, though."
"Thank you very much," Blackstar gloats. "Do you want to play your songs now? Let me judge 'em."
Maka rests her phone in the cupholder. "That's the plan."
So light, so easy.
You looked right through me, Maka told him once.
Soul's grip tightens on the wheel. Because you didn't want to be seen, Maka. You never do.
"Oh," Blackstar says suddenly, "Hey maybe you should skip this one."
Soul's attention refocuses, and he hears the notes suddenly falling from the speakers and unwinding in the space around his head. He didn't even notice Ricochet started playing.
His eyes jump to the rearview mirror where Blackstar is already glancing at him anxiously.
Maka picks up her phone, and frowns in confusion. "Why?"
"I hate it," Blackstar lies quickly. "It sucks. Turn it off."
Soul gives him a look. "He doesn't hate it. You don't have to pause it, Maka. It's fine."
He doesn't bother listening to the lyrics this time as they pass him by. He thinks of the tires, the crunch of loose asphalt on the road; where the bottom of his shoe rests on the gas pedal.
"All good?" Blackstar asks.
Soul counts the blue signs he can see beyond the windshield; certain names help him mentally check the route home. After a moment, he nods, and Blackstar visibly relaxes.
"What's that about?" Maka questions and Soul can see her looking between the two of them in his peripheral.
"It's nothing," Blackstar says, at the same time that Soul mutters, "Forget about it."
Maka pauses the music. "What's wrong with the song?"
"I don't know, Maka." Soul's voice hardens. "Maybe you should've been there."
The sharp words shove them immediately into silence, filled only by backseat typing that Soul knows is Blackstar frantically burying himself into his phone. He feels the twinge of guilt for his lack of a filter, a second too late.
Maka sinks back into her seat. She pauses, then states, "You're mad."
Soul's gaze narrows at the road. "A little."
"Okay," Maka says quietly.
His fingers relax on the steering wheel unexpectedly. He isn't sure what he thought Maka would say- an empty apology, maybe something defensive- but a one-worded acknowledgment takes him by surprise. He's not happy with how they left things, Maka knows this, and their current car ride is not the time to solve it.
"...Do I want to know what happened in there?" Blackstar asks.
Maka is seemingly waiting for Soul to explain, but no answer comes. The silence continues without mercy.
"Right." Blackstar lets out a heavy sigh, followed by a flurry of typing. His ringer seems purposefully noisy when a gentle sound signifies a text has been sent.
Soul feels a buzz in his pocket, at the same time a notification from Maka's phone chimes through the car's speakers.
"Um." Maka lifts the charger cord, and peers at her screen. "Why did you-"
"Out loud," Blackstar orders.
"You actually want me to read it?"
Soul peers briefly at the open group chat on Maka's phone. "What's it say?"
Maka clears her throat. "Y'all being so awkward in here it's like… like someone shit their pants?" She looks up, then continues, "And we're pretending the entire car doesn't fucking stink."
"Amen," Blackstar says.
Soul scowls at him through the rearview. "What the hell?" He can't help the slight amusement that breaks through his face. "What is wrong with you?"
Blackstars eyebrows raise, and he returns to more aggressive typing. Another message pings both of their phones again.
The car rolls to a stop at the intersection. Red lights and license plates detach from Soul's view as Maka holds out her bright screen, and he turns his head to see.
"He sent us another one," Maka says.
Soul squints and mumbles over the words in monotone, "You're still being awkward can you please play some music or something I'm trying my best here you both annoy me so much-" A short bark of laughter escapes him before he can keep it at bay. "Okay, okay, we get it. Jeez."
Maka resumes the music, and after a brief pause, skips to a different song. Though Soul had mostly ignored it, he feels slight relief at the change of pace.
"You could just use your words, Blackstar." Maka almost sounds apologetic.
Blackstar scoffs. "Says you." Then, he points out, "Green."
Soul refocuses on the road to accelerate. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket again, and he rolls his eyes. "No need to keep sending stuff, dude."
"Huh?" Blackstar shows his hands empty. "That wasn't me."
Soul frowns and reaches down to shuffle his phone out of his pocket. He briefly glances at the notification.
"It's from Tsubaki," He notes, before passing it to anxious hands extending from the passenger seat. He's been hounded by Maka for texting and driving plenty of times before and isn't eager to hear it in person.
Blackstar leans forward to the center console. "What?"
"It's a photo," Maka explains, unlocking Soul's phone.
His eyes glance between the road and the sight of Maka's fingertips gliding across his messages. "Did you just guess my passcode?"
Maka shakes her head dismissively. "You gave it to me forever ago, remember?" Soul rapidly loses his train of thought in recollection, and Maka guides him, "You said there was no harm in telling me because I was all the way in Ohio. Idiot."
Soul's face warms as the memory resurfaces; You want to hack my phone? He thinks they were tangled between digital screens, laughter, and late hours on call. You'll have to come down here and do it yourself.
"So you memorized it?" Soul asks, unsure as to why his heartbeat grows heavy.
Blackstar nudges Maka's shoulder. "What did Tsubaki send?"
"I didn't memorize it, I just remember stuff about you," Maka corrects absently. "It looks like a screenshot of your texts, Star."
Blackstar groans. "Oh god, I thought she was kidding about doing that-"
Soul quickly leaves behind the confused elation that'd been rising in his chest, and he grins. "Read it."
"Maka," Blackstar says, "Do not read it."
Maka giggles. "What a nice contact name for you. So many emojis."
"Oh, come one. You have to read it." Soul earns a stubborn kick to the back of his seat as if Blackstar can feel him thinking about the list.
"It just says something about us being in our divorce era," Maka explains vaguely, but she's smiling down at the screen. "How come you never respond to me with such long messages?"
"You are so stupid," Blackstar says.
"Oh yeah?" Maka turns in her chair. "You sure you don't want a booster seat back there?"
Soul huffs lightly. He does feel guilty for making Blackstar live-comment his discomfort, but he isn't in the position to be taking care of everything. Despite what Maka may have convinced herself, it isn't all his responsibility. He doesn't like the sound of a 'divorce era,' thought, and tries to list his head away from it.
"You would look pretty funny in a car seat," Soul admits, and Blackstar scowls.
"You're just saying that because you're a simp."
"That's not what those texts looked like," Maka fires quickly, and Blackstar's irritation is pulled off of Soul in an instant.
"You know what, Maka?" His voice is firm, but Soul can hear the sarcastic smile rising on his face. "I can read, too. How about I expose some of our messages?"
Soul's eyebrows raise. "Oh?"
"You don't have anything good," Maka says in dismissive confidence, usually strong enough to stall anyone on their bluff.
Blackstar sits up at the challenge, phone clutched in his hand. "You sure about that?"
"You're an idiot," Maka replies.
"Oh, man, okay." Blackstar leans on the partition between the front seats. "Let's talk about what Maka sent me yesterday then."
A theatrical pause blankets the car. Soul turns off the recently nudged turn signal on the dash, Maka is poised in stubborn disinterest, and Blackstar clears his throat.
"She said, 'What the fuck," Blackstar begins. "Next text, 'you're dead to me-'"
Soul smiled, because Maka immediately breaks, turning in her chair and rushing, "Wait, wait, hold on-"
Blackstar refuses. "Then, and I quote-"
"Blake," Maka pleads.
"'Why didn't you tell me-" Blackstar's voice tapers off into ecstatic giggles as Maka's fists collide with his raised forearm. "He's this hot?'"
The sound tears itself from Soul's throat before he can attempt to process it, "What?"
Eyes wide, his cheeks warm; the flush carries down Soul's neck and heats where his palms grasp the wheel. He dares to slide his gaze to the passenger seat.
Maka's face is in her palm, her elbow leaning on the car door with her fingers pressing into her temples. The top half of her face is covered, but the hint of blush on her cheekbones is poorly hidden. Beneath small whisps of loose blonde hair, her ears are glowing pink.
A wave of roaring triumph crashes in Soul's chest.
As if she can sense it, Maka mutters, "Oh my god."
Blackstar's laughter from behind them is loud and overpowering, drawing Soul away from his initial surprise. His head spins as an all too prideful smile spreads across his face.
"Oh really, Maka?" he manages to ask.
Maka releases her face from her hand but immediately groans at the grin Soul tosses her way. "It was a joke."
Soul's heart pounds. "Yeah," he says, "sure."
A joke.
Maka's glare is pointedly soulless, but Soul doesn't care. He's laughing when Blackstar manages to wheeze out a 'great joke, Maka,' and doesn't stop laughing when Maka attempts to deliver a self-saving tangent.
He should consider himself an immoral person for enjoying how Maka flails. It's a shame, really, that it's far more fun to revel in his own vanity. The rest of the car ride follows suit; Blackstar and Soul take any opportunity to make jabs at Maka's humiliation, Maka hardly speaking but letting them nag her nonetheless. By the time they're unpacking groceries in the kitchen and passing light jokes, the surrounding air has lowered them back to steady ground.
Soul has almost forgotten the contents of their morning despite the dull gnawing on his stomach. He's able to focus on shuffling items into the fridge, tossing out the old carton of juice and refilling its place on a purposefully low shelf. Maka is lining a tin-foil banking pan with their 'lunch nuggets,' while Blackstar disrupts the organized pantry with new food.
He's humming softly to himself when he hears Maka say, "Soul."
He looks back over his shoulder and ceases humming entirely. Maka has her eyes fixed down on the countertop, superfluous in her curling of tin foil over the pan's edges.
Her voice is low. "I am sorry for what happened at the store."
The refrigerator door slowly glides shut, the magnetic pull leaving Soul's palm silently. He steps closer to the marble island and leans down to rest his forearms upon it. In the quiet pause that follows, he gives Maka a chance to say more. Nothing comes, and he knits his brows together.
"I need you to look at me," he murmurs, quietly enough to pass over Blackstar's awareness.
Maka's eyes raise towards him in an instant. Her face is open, painfully so.
"I'm trying to be better, Maka." Soul says. He lets every work sink, careful and raw. "I can't do that if you keep acting like my past mistakes are all that I am."
Maka gazes at him, her green eyes searching Soul's face. After a moment, she nods slowly.
The small gesture blooms faint relief in Soul's lungs. She's listening. She hears me.
Soul leans off the counter, Maka pushes a frozen nugget out of line on the pan, and they don't say anything more.
We're still not okay.
Soul passes by her on the way to check the pantry. Before he can tell himself not to, he reaches down over Maka's shoulder and nudges the dinosaur back into place.
But we're getting somewhere.
As he leaves, he convinces himself he sees Maka smile.
Always, always getting somewhere.
Steam collects on the line of his brow. Soul tips his head back, eyes lifting to the white ceiling as warm mist coats his throat. The shower stream drums heavily on the center of his chest.
After the groceries were dealt with and pits were subtle-smelled from waves of nerves, Soul figured he needed some time alone to clean and recoup. When he gave Blackstar and Maka the quick announcement, they almost seemed relieved to have a bit of downtime as well.
He collects shampoo in his palm and rakes sudsy hands through his hair. The screenshot read aloud in the car is still fresh on his mind. He glanced over it when waiting for hot water; Blackstar had been texting Tsubaki during the car ride after all, and Maka definitely left out pieces to spare their feelings.
Oh god it just go worse, Blackstar sent. Please save me.
Are they in their divorce era? Tsubaki had asked.
Among other things, Blackstar had replied, yeah, mimicking my parent's era.
Soul's knuckles drag through tangles, and he sighs. The warm steam overhead clouds him.
He's not stupid. Blackstar is too good at mediating for a reason, and Tsubaki's screenshot feels like a purposeful reminder of that.
In fact, he'd responded to Tsubaki himself; I know and I'm working on it.
Tsubaki reacted to the text with a heart, carrying as much simplicity and ease as always, and said, You dummy.
The humid air accumulating around him begins to lightly dizzy his lungs. Warm water stings his skin. He tips his head forward slowly and shuts his eyes as the stream begins to sift through his hair.
It's the middle of the day, he thinks, I talked with Maka this morning. I fought with Maka in the grocery store.
He begins to wander in a list. He touched Maka's shoulder, they bought the kind of snack an old girlfriend of his used to eat all the time, the lady next to them in the checkout had a feather barrette in her hair. He should get Blair some more cat toys. She seemed happy in the morning light with Maka petting her.
He blinks and runoff clings to his lashes. His mind comes back down.
He doesn't know where he stands with Maka. The more distance that is placed between her and her actions in the grocery aisle, he confronts that he shouldn't have pushed so much. No matter if what Maka said hurt him or not, that was not what their trip to the store was about- or their entire trip for that matter.
Friends first, Soul reminds himself.
Soap suds slide down between his shoulder blades. His fingers gently soothe more away from his scalp.
Friends.
He thinks about the coldness that slowly thawed on Maka's face, and how her cheeks flushed when she'd put an edge to her voice. With every inch that Soul had closed between them, he watched her shoulders shift with hypnotic, inaudible breaths. She'd looked so small with Soul's broad frame towering above her, yet in her eyes was an almost defiant stoicism.
He breathes out and water droplets spit from his lips.
Maka's eyes were soft when they'd first met. Her blush in the car, when Blackstar read her confession, was soft, too. He finds himself trying to picture Maka texting it- was it on the way back from the airport, at lunch, or during the tour? Her nervous glancing, from Soul's face to her phone, rapidly typing it out, Why didn't you tell me that he's-
No. Soul's breath locks in his chest. I'm not doing that. I'm not gonna go there.
He turns the temperature dial until cool water flows from the showerhead. Once his skin becomes numb, he's able to continue in shivering peace.
By the time he tugs on fresh clothes and wanders back downstairs, he seems to have lost his friends, returning to a deserted main floor. Empty kitchen, quiet rooms- it's only once he sees his car keys still sitting on the countertop that he relaxes fully. The only cohabitant he notices is Blair, waiting by the sliding glass door.
He crouches to scratch her back and she begins to purr.
"Hey," He says. "Do you know where they went?"
She meows quietly. He lifts his attention to the backyard, as she idly rubs her face against his knee.
"Ah." he rises to his feet, keeping Blair inside with a nudge of his ankle, and slides the door shut behind him. "What are you doing?"
Blackstar looks up from where he's directing Maka, a large blanket held in their palms and spreading out across the green grass. He takes two steps to his left, then sets the corner of the quilt down.
"We are going to have a picnic," Blackstar answers simply.
"A dinner picnic," Maka corrects. She sits on the blanket and sets down their plate of cooked nuggets.
Soul smiles quizically. "What's the distinction?"
"A picnic is for early morning to precisely two o'clock," Maka says, while Blackstar nods in grave agreement, "And a dinner starts at four. We'll be eating in the middle, so it's both."
Soul glances at the skin and hums contemplatively. "But it's only one forty-five."
Blackstar pulls out his phone and stares at Soul. "Did you just read… the sun?"
"Let's say I did, Blackstar," Soul contests against the absurd stare coming his way. "What then?"
Blackstar pauses and studies Soul's grin. "You checked the time before you came out here," he grumbles.
Maka laughs. Soul's chest flickers with a small lick of pride.
"It's going to take us longer than twenty minutes to get it all set up," Maka explains.
Soul lowers himself down the quilt, and Maka extends a dinosaur-shaped nugget to him. He takes it and bites the head from its body.
"What's on the menu?" He asks through a mouthful.
"Everything," Blackstar says.
Soul squints up at him, his silhouette darkened by the aforementioned sun behind his shoulders. "Everything? Like, from the store?"
Blackstar nods.
"Oh god," Soul mutters.
"It'll be our vacation feast," Maka says. "Like Thanksgiving."
Soul huffs. "You know how much time and energy goes into a Thanksgiving meal?"
With a hand raised over her mouth as she chews, Maka shakes her head. "You're not going to be making it. We are."
Soul stares. "No."
"Yes," Blackstar says.
"No way," Soul insists. "You're not cooking for me. It's basically our first dinner together, here, in my house-"
"Exactly," Maka interrupts and Blackstar tries, "That's why we-"
Soul raises his hands dismissively. "You're the guests, not the other way around. I'll make whatever crap burgers you want, so long as you don't lift a finger-"
"Where was this energy when you made me clean the house two days ago?" Blackstar's voice pitches as he plops down in the space next to him.
Soul rolls his eyes. "Okay, picking up your trash is different-"
"Soul," Maka says, and his attention shifts immediately. Seated on the blanket stolen from Soul's garage with a plate his older brother once chipped in his lap, she offers an incredibly soft smile. "Let us do this, yeah?"
Soul feels his heartbeat slow in his chest. The blue sky stretches above them. As he looks at Maka, he wonders if fireflies will come out during dusk.
"Okay," he breathes.
"Great!" Blackstar ruffles Soul's damp hair in an unexpected assault with his allows defeatedly. "Now you'll have to be our guest." He clears his throat. "Y'know put our services to the test."
A quiet beat passes. Soul studies the look on Blackstar's face and sighs.
Maka wipes the crumbs off her hands. "Should we get started?"
"Blackstar," Soul utters.
Blackstar begins to mumble, "Don't start this again-"
"Just say the words out loud." He reaches and sympathetically pats his back. "Admit it."
They watch with quiet respect as Blackstar reaches right and ceremoniously steads the rest of Soul's nugget from his hand. As always, he is overwhelmingly dramatic and unpredictably soft. Soul is far too aware that Blackstar knows the words to almost every Disney son Tsubaki and Patty elicits from him, but he is hesitant to ever bring it up outside of his warm bubble of safety.
With audible anxiousness, Blackstar confesses, "I want to go to an amusement park with you guys."
Soul lets out an exhilarated shout immediately. "There it is! Let's go!" Laughter flies between them and it floats ease in the afternoon air. "Proud of you, star."
A quiet pause passes in which Soul waits for Blackstar to speak, who fidgets relentlessly. Maka seems to be watching their exchange from a distance.
"So," Blackstar says. "Can we go to Six Flags?"
Soul smiles. "Make me a PowerPoint presentation, and I'll consider it."
Maka laughs quietly, and he dismisses the rising feeling of success with a firm clearing of his throat.
"You suck," Blackstar grumbles in response as he angrily bites into his chicken dinosaur.
They succeeded in crafting a dinner of unholy standards in no time. Sloppy burgers, messy baked beans, bowls of various chips and candies that Maka insists they keep out on the blanket for 'dessert.' It's a terrifying sight, but Soul allows it for the grins it brings to his guest's faces. They don't talk much about anything other than light jokes, planning for ranked games, or tweeting images of Maka trying Triscuits for the first time. It feels good to be rooted in their little moment and not wander beyond the blanket and balled-up napkins in the grass.
No fireflies visit them come nightfall. It's likely their season is long gone, or local birds teamed with light pollution to drive them away- but Soul can't help tracing his eyes in the fading blue overhead to try and find them.
Maka catches one of his glances upwards and asks, "Are you looking for something?"
Soul's gaze comes back down. "Fireflies," he admits.
"Oh." Maka tilts her head back, casting her green eyes up to the sky. She seems hopeful as she searches for a hint of glowing bodies.
"Lightning bugs," Blackstar corrects.
Soul looks away from the sharp edge of Maka's jaw to glare at him. "You sound like my cousins."
Blackstar narrows his eyes back. "Compare me to those asshats again, and we're gonna have a problem."
"Go back to Texas," Soul says, "you absolute freak."
He scoffs. "Just say you're afraid of lightning and go."
Maka chuckles softly.
Soul grins. "What's so funny, Maka?"
After a moment, Maka looks away from the sky and offers, "My grandparents called them Fire devils."
Maka only continues to laugh, which makes Soul break into a light fit, and Blackstar is roped in last of all. They quickly grow breathless as the outburst builds and builds.
"That's actually so cool," Blackstar forces out, and Soul nods in agreement.
After all the years of digital calls, their laughter piles together in a space that is tangible, reachable, and rooted in the smell of cooked burgers and humid Nevada air. It's not clipped by poor audio or metallic microphones. Soul can see it in the way that they smile, eyes glamping bright, the familiarity is what brings them home.
In the midst of it all, Soul manages to declare between breaths, "Tomorrow. Let's go tomorrow."
"Wh-what?" Blackstar asks with a grin.
"Six flags," Soul says, and the look that crosses Blackstar's face immediately launches them into another wave of laughter.
"What?"
Maka is giggling, and when Soul gestures to her wordlessly, she nods in affirmation. "Sure, yeah. Tomorrow."
Blackstar let out a whoop in celebration, loud enough to make Maka flinch. Sentences and the prospect of eating food are lost entirely to their ridiculous, stomach-clenching joy. The laughter sprinkles through to the end of their night when dishes are cleaned and blankets folded. By the time darkness creeps in, they've stopped searching for fireflies.
Summer is coming to a close. The equinox is looming. Soul swears somewhere between long journals and sleepless nights, fall has promised to be kind.
The second night Maka is in Nevada, Soul has a nightmare.
He wakes up with his own hand on his throat.
The pads of his fingers are warm over his skin, pulse, and rush of blood that buzzes in his ears. His chest heaves and his ribs rise against the length of his forearm. Staggered breaths snap him upright, hands ripping away.
Awake, he tells himself, thoughts swirling in the dizzying motion of covers being kicked off. You're awake.
Carpet snags beneath his feet. The cool metal of his door handle stings his palm.
I'm awake.
He yanks open his bedroom door and spills into the hall. He can't hear the sound of his own feet. He thinks he feels a terrified Blair run past his calves, but he doesn't look down as he rapidly descends down the stairs.
Water. His throat burns with every dry heave of his chest. Breathe.
He could be coughing when he reaches the kitchen, or crying when his hands grip the granite sink. All it takes is one swipe of the back of his to his cheeks to realize, as his knuckles come off dry, that the feeling of tears is in his head.
"I have these dreams," he remembers saying to his therapist, during one of the earlier sessions when he'd been too terrified to reach for the center tissues. "These nightmares."
His skull aches. The scene of the Blackroom flashes behind his eyes.
"What are they about, Soul?"
He hangs his head, sweat drenched in a line down his back, turning soft cotton to dark grey. The bulk of his shoulders rises and falls as he reaches for deep, anchoring puffs of air.
What are they about?
The checkerboard tiles, the void around him, the red imp on the piano, and a grin sharp enough to pierce. With his hands wringing together on that low-seated couch, he answered:
"Suicide."
His eyes screw shut. The moonlight spilling from the window before him is lost in the immediate darkness.
"Why do you dream of hurting yourself?" he was asked.
His hands release the counter and shove open the facet until cold water spills from its curved metallic neck.
"I don't know," Soul said.
"Does it make you feel better, to hurt yourself?"
His shaking palms cup under the chilling stream, filling to the brim and spilling over the sides. He splashes his face, the shock loosening his jaw, and gasps as droplets slide down his skin.
"I don't know," he repeated.
Water thrums against the base of the sink.
"Do these thoughts follow you," questioned carefully, "Outside of your dreams?"
He splashes his face again. His fingers press flat to the soft shell of his closed eyes and he drags his touch down until he's pulling at his cheeks.
"No, no, of course not." He'd been so sure, then, until the walls of the room seemed to inch closer and the carpet started to breathe. "Not… physically, at least."
The questions kept coming, and coming, pushing him further into the space he loathed to go. Answers were drawn out of him like the disgusting bugs and beetles he'd seen the birds cough up for their young.
"How do you harm yourself?"
"Not eating," Soul said. "Not sleeping. Shutting myself off from everyone who cares about me. Lying to my mom and telling her I'm too sick to take visit her and my brother. Rereading my old messages with Maka, to justify why I hate myself all over again."
He tugs on the collar of his shirt and furiously wipes the water from his face. The fabric is wrinkled and damp when it returns to his chest. His fingers refuse to unclench from the grey cloth, harsh knuckles pressing into his sternum.
He can't stop remembering. He hasn't been back there since he started to explain it all and thought he was free. Better. Moving forward and not residing in a place meant for reflection.
The Blackroom had fireflies tonight. They floated above the tiled floor like stars caught in a shimmering trap, yet they were static, unmoving, and radiated a light that reminded him of glowing bedroom stars you stuck to your ceiling.
"With the imp, the one who comes from the piano… how do you feel about him?"
He huffed at his doctor's caution. "Terrified."
"Is he scared of you?"
"Yes," Soul answered, then his voice quieted. "Probably."
"Have you ever tried speaking to him?"
"No." His own words ring through his ears, refracting and resounding. "All he knows is violence."
He thinks of the encounter he'd just had in the same space that has wounded him time and time again. He lifts his eyes to the window and catches his own faint image in the illuminated glass.
If it's only violence, he thinks, eyes flitting over himself and the moonlit backyard, then what the hell was that?
"Stop," he breathes, hands curling into the sink as the other clutches his chest. "I'm better." His throat tightens, whisper creaking inside of it, "I'm better."
"Soul?"
All the air rushes out of his lungs at once. He freezes before the window sill, and the muscles in his arms brun. He can hear hesitant footsteps approaching from the other side of the room.
His eyes glide shut.
Not now, he tries to say but is unable to let out a sound. Not like this. Please, not like this.
"Are you alright?" Maka asks softly, her voice drawing closer. Her steps grow louder as water continues to rush down the sink.
Don't look. Don't move. Maybe she'll go, just tell her to go.
A tentative hand settles on Soul's shoulder, and his eyes snap open.
Maka's touch stays there, curling over his shoulder blade, fingertips brushing the bone that gives way to his taut bicep. It has no intention to leave- squeezes gently, even- no matter how much surprised silence Soul lets sink between them.
Maka reached for him. Maka reached.
"I…" Soul croaks, but his voice falls flat.
He can see Maka's other hand slowly move in his peripheral and fill an empty cup with the runoff from the faucet. The handle returns to its regular place with a slight squeak.
Maka extends the glass of water towards him, and after a pause, his fingers slide away from the cloth on his chest to take it. He'd forgotten the reason he aimed for the kitchen sink in the first place, and the moment the cold liquid reaches his lips, he caves. He gulps it down until the feeling of silt leaves his aching throat.
The glass is refilled before his hands know what they're doing. He chugs it again.
Maka flinches at the sharp sound of the cup returning to the countertop. The light jump of fingers, briefly jittering against his shoulder blade, shoves Soul back down to the space between them.
He prays Maka doesn't find his works just as abrasive when he rasps out, "Thank you."
"What happened?" Maka asks.
"Don't. You don't have to… to…" Post-sleep, Soul's voice scraps low in the night air. "I'm alright."
Maka's thumb brushes soothingly on the thin fabric of his shoulder. It drags right ever so slightly and returns back to its original place. "You're not."
Soul exhales heavily. "I am."
"Soul."
His shoulders drop. "It's nothing, I… I just had a bad dream," he confesses. "That's all."
"Oh." The concerned grip on his shoulder tightens. "Do you… want to talk about it?"
"No, no. It's fine." Soul lets a short breath pass through his lips. "I don't want to keep you up, I-"
Maka's hand slips down Soul's spine as she withdrawals from his shoulder, fingers grazing over the length of his back before disconnecting completely. Chills break out on Soul's forearms at the light simmering drag.
His eyes slide away from the window to stare openly.
"Is there anything I can do?" Maka pushes before Soul can dare to comment on it. She looks familiar, washed in the subtle moonlight, talking softly and lingering before Soul's eyes in a way that makes him forget his panic. He wants to pass over her like he would in a dream, to study and appreciate the high rise of her cheekbones, or the light accent of her hair.
Yet his gaze drops to the splattered sink, and he traces patterns in the splotchy steel.
"Go back to sleep, Maka," He muttered tiredly.
Without hesitation, Maka says, "You know I wasn't sleeping."
He slowly lets go of the wet granite and looks over his shoulder. "That is a strange thing to say to me."
Turning his back towards the window, he leans against the edge of the counter. It bites into the cloth of his boxers as he wipes them with wet fingers.
"It's the truth," Maka replies.
Soul raises his dried hands before him to crack his knuckles, tension from gripping the sink released in loud pops against his palms. He soothes his thumb over aching joints then draws his hands into fists.
"Why are you awake?" he asks dismissively, studying the temple in his own fingers when he uncurls them.
From the corner of his eye, he catches Maka watching. His heart drops in candid darkness. Soul gives her a look of caution.
"Why," he murmurs, repeating, "are you awake, Maka?"
"It's the jetlag," Maka says, but her arms fold gently over her chest. "My clock is all over the place."
He studies the way Maka has her hip leaned against the counter, her pale hands lax on her biceps, cozied in pajamas and rooted to the spot. Soul wants her to leave as much as he wants her to stay.
"Jetlag," he echoes, and Maka says nothing. "That's what you're going with?"
Maka's mouth draws into a thin line. "I don't think we should talk about me right now."
Soul's brows raise. Maybe Maka has forgotten how he gets at night; bitter and bold.
Oh, he thinks, tipping his head, I'll remind her. "I thought you preferred talking about our shit in the kitchen."
He sees Maka's face break open as the steady breathing of her chest briefly seizes. Soul's heart begins to pound. The thrill and fear that'd left him on the cold Blackroom tile returns tenfold.
"I still remember what you dream about," Maka says, quiet and slow.
"So?"
"I don't…" She glances away from Soul'd face. "I don't want to make you more upset than you already are."
A short huff leaves Soul before he can stop it. "What makes you think I'm upset?"
Maka frowns. "You've been upset all day."
"Oh," Soul says, "have I?"
He hates that his head is crowded with this; thoughts of wanting to pull her closer, of wanting to push her away, how much he loves to fight because at least it makes them feel. He wants Maka to get angry again. He wants an excuse to fall apart.
Maka watches him for a careful moment. Quietly, she says, "Please don't try to fall apart because of me."
Soul's breathing slows to a halt. He forgets the arid clutter weighing on his brain, and his gaze grows gentle, searching Maka's face. He feels his body turn towards her ad squeezes the counter to keep himself there.
"I…" He hangs his head. "I think you should go back upstairs."
"Soul-"
"No, look, I get you feel bad about…" Soul sighs. "Whatever. But I just feel like we're going to fight if you stay and I…I shouldn't do that, right now. That's dumb. And I'm tired."
Silence creeps into their conversation, slow and suffocating. From the corner of his eye, he sees Maka turn away so her back is to the window as well.
"What if…" Maka draws a hand to her face and squeezes at her temples as she'd done in the car. "What if we didn't fight?"
Softly, he questions, "What?"
"I…I don't think I have the explanations you want from me right now," Maka murmurs, "and I'm not sure when I will." She sighs, and her voice softens. "But I'm still your friend, and I'm here for you. Okay?"
Soul studies the way Maka is guarding her eyes with her head tipped down to the floor. He wants to gently take Maka's wrist, draw her hand away, and make her feel safe enough to look.
"You can talk to me," Maka mutters.
"What can I say?" Soul asks, quietly. His heart pounds in his skull. "What… what am I supposed to say, around you?"
Maka's hand slowly falls down and lightly clenches the cloth on her own chest. "Whatever you want."
"That is not true," Soul says, words rushing from his mouth before he has a chance to catch them. His face warms, and he attempts to rephrase, "We- we have to be mindful. That's what we agreed, right?"
"I know," Maka says lightly. "But 'mindful' doesn't have to be… so quiet, I guess?"
A confused frown tugs on Soul's features. "You're saying I should talk more? About what?"
"You could tell me about your nightmare," Maka offers.
He blinks away the thought of the Blackroom and swallows dryly. "...why?"
"I don't know."
They both have their eyes fixed ahead to the counter or cold floor or cabinets. The only warmth that has remained from their morning is trapped between Soul's palms and the counter behind them.
"Maybe… maybe it'll feel like normal," Maka says.
"Oh." Soul feels the pull of an unexpected, small smile."Talking about my psycho-dreams is our normal?"
Maka looks at him. "It used to be."
The moonlight on his back cools his skin and heat escapes where his bare feet are touching the floor. Soul thinks of their morning, how they'd started, and where they're ending. Maka asked him how he'd been, Maka shutting off in the grocery store, her pink face in the car; her generosity at dinner.
He draws in a deep breath. I trust her. As soon as it surfaces, he challenges his own thought, Why?
"After everything," he says, "you stay up. You haunt my kitchen. And now you want to listen to me?"
Maka nods curtly.
He huffs. "I don't understand you."
"I don't understand me, either," Maka says.
Soul feels the subtle warmth radiating in his cheeks and studies the lines on the cold floor. They stand for a moment in uninterrupted company, both breathing quietly, not concerned with time or the presence of tomorrow. His world zeros in on their quiet, loaded kitchen.
"I haven't had one in a while," Soul murmurs. "I almost forgot what it was like to be there."
He sees Maka's head turn to the side of his vision, but no words fall.
"Sometimes, I get them constantly," he continues. "Y'know, days on end, multiple a night. Or they don't come at all, and I'm able to dream like normal." He shifts his hands against the counter, trying to ease his shoulders. "I didn't have one for a few weeks, and I started to think… maybe. Just maybe, this time around, they'll be gone for good."
"I'm… sorry," Maka says. "How bad was it?"
"I was different." Soul lifts his eyes and stares dead at the island before him. "This one was different."
The Blackroom, the dark abyss surrounding him, the looming piano that makes no sounds unless he is there to hear it.
"Everything was the same as it had been when I left," He says. "And I guess I'd lost, last time. My brain kept the score."
"You woke up by the piano?"
She remembers. Soul nods slowly, his jaw tight. From one, brief conversation months ago- Maka still remembers.
"I waited for the imp to come like I normally do. I waited, and waited, but… he didn't show." Soul's voice drops. "I shouldn't been relieved that he was gone, Maka, I should've been happy, but- but I had this pit in my stomach. Like I was missing something."
He remembers rising from his crouch on the tile floor, turning his face towards the space twenty meters behind, and moving away from the piano.
"I walked towards the darkness," he whispers. "I went there to find him, and as I came closer, he… he was standing in there. Just a silhouette, just a shadow"
"Soul," Maka says, softly.
He can feel the shakiness in how own voice growing. "He didn't chase me, and I didn't run. I just stood there, staring at him." He pauses and carefully clears the threat of oncoming tears from his throat. "Have you ever been so afraid of something, so goddamn terrified that- that you want to give in? You want to let it happen?"
His chest rises and falls rapidly as his nails dig into the underside of the counter's edge.
"Yes," Maka breathes, and Soul's eyes flick sharply to his left.
Confusion muddles inside his chest.
We're standing so close, aren't we? Soul feels the warm brush of Maka's elbow against his forearm. Aren't we?
"I felt that pull," he says slowly, "to let it. He wasn't attacking me, and I didn't have to defend myself. I was… safe. So I raised my hand." He lifts his palm in a slow greeting, and his fingers slowly close in recollection. "And he mimicked me. Without missing a beat, he did the same exact thing. It was like looking at a fucked up, funhouse mirror."
Several seconds pass where he recollects himself before Maka asks, "What then?"
"I tried to talk to him, and my voice echoed back. But he started moving, or I did, I'm not sure who really…" Soul frowns, then carefully cups a hand under his own jaw to lift his face. "Like this. It felt necessary to hold here like my face would slip off if I let go. That's when I- we- reached for my throat." His other hand rises, suspended in the dark air, fingers outstretched, wide enough to grab at his throat. "I watched him slowly bring his hand up, and up, and when I was inches away from feeling it beneath my fingertips, I-"
His hands slip from his face and fall to his sides. The back of his wrists hit the counter.
"I woke up," He says. "My hand was still on my throat."
The final note rings clear through the kitchen and flattens them into silence, long and pensive, broken only by his soft breathing and thump of his heart. His head aches. He can't stop wondering what would've been had he not woken up.
Maka clears her throat. "What does all of that mean, to you?"
He presses his lips together to hide a sardonic smirk. "Since when do dreams have to mean anything?"
Maka gives him a look. She smiles.
"I think… it may be for the best that you had one again," Maka mutters. "Even though you didn't want to."
"What makes you say that?"
She raises a brow. "Not getting murdered there for the first time ever is probably a good thing."
"Well-" Soul clears his throat. He thinks of Maka by the piano, and his face grows hot. "Not the first time, actually."
"Oh?" Maka frowns, then her eyes widen in realization. "Oh."
"Yeah." His hand detached from the counter to awkwardly scratch at the back of his head. "I guess it kinda makes sense that I'd have another dream… when you're…" he gestures vaguely to her and doesn't know where to place his hands afterward.
"So I'm the common denominator?" Maka jokes, but it lands in a space too soft; too careful.
Soul feels a response rise on the tip of his tongue. He's never told her what happened in that dream, and no matter how much he wants to, he bites it back.
"Maka," he mutters instead, "What are you doing here?"
"I… said I wanted to help-"
"No," Soul says. "No. In Nevada, Maka." His voice falls hushed and tired. "Why are you here?"
"I thought we weren't fighting," she responds carefully.
Soul stares at her. "Are we?" He gets no answer. "Okay, if you keep doing that, maybe we will."
Maka huffs and leans off the counter. "I don't think you'll like what I have to say."
"It can't be worse than not knowing," he pushes, exasperation hanging off every syllable. "You've been trying to make it up to me all day, I get that, but this will do it. Talk to me."
"You say that like its easy," Maka hushes.
His chest aches. "Why did you agree to come here?"
"Because I missed you," Maka lets out, words falling faster than the brittle air can catch, "I missed you and wanted to meet you and not that I'm here-" Her words give way to an abrupt, shaky exhale.
She missed me. The words falling from Maka's mouth fill him with such a sad, lonely joy. Was it the same way I missed her?
"...Now that you're here?" Soul echoes, her voice soft with surprise.
"Now that I'm here," Maka continues quietly, "I still miss you."
Still. Soul's head spins. Still?
"Wh-what does that…" He trails off as Maka's hand lightly settles on his wrist.
His gaze falls towards it immediately. Maka's fingers are tentative when they brush against bone; chilled when they shift against his warm skin.
"You're so far away," Maka says softly, "and I know that's because of me. But you're… you're not being you."
Soul's fingers twitch against the counter and brush the underside of Maka's forearm. He curls his fingertips into his palm so it doesn't happen again.
"Soul." Maka's grasp squeezes, pale fingers snaking up his arm, bold and chilling. "It's okay. I'm okay."
His eyes raise to meet her bright green gaze, heart pounding in his chest. "You're confusing me again."
"If you want to- to be more you, then you can. I'm okay." Maka's face is earnest, brows pinched together in the hope of being understood. "Be more you."
Soul's lips part as his breath leaves him.
I thought you'd be more: in my face, annoying, touchy, close, he pieces Maka's words together as they collect with gentle realization. I thought you'd be more you.
He reaches for Maka's shoulder. Easy. Every inch of his palm that curves over thin collarbone is warm. Careful.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, and he draws Maka to his chest as he wraps his arms around her.
He isn't sure if this is what Maka wanted; if this is what they should do. His hold is open and warm, and gentle. His mind once again rewires at how small Maka is, fitting under his chin effortlessly, wallowed and paralyzed by his tall frame.
"I…I shouldn't have forced you to talk like that, in public," Soul murmurs. "I know better."
Maka slowly stirs to life in his arms, hands creeping around Soul's torso, and she hugs him back.
Their first embrace was in front of an entire terminal, busy with a faint hum of planes in the sky above. This one was for them, only, made of shifting hands and the quiet kitchen and moonlight. Maka's head rests against Soul's sternum, as they breathe, warm and steady.
"It's alright," Maka whispers, weakly.
Soul lowers his cheek to the top of her hair. "It's not."
"I deserve it. I was being a dick."
He laughs gently and feels Maka smile against his chest at the sound. "Okay, maybe."
The amusement subsides, and he lets his attention focus on the warmth pressing from his ribs to his thighs. He feels the urge to say more, ask more, and talk it dead- but they've talked for years already. After endless conversations, he can swipe a thumb across the small of Maka's back, or brush idly through her light hair. So long as he's careful and smart, they can have this.
"I'm sorry for upsetting you," Soul mutters, even though he doesn't have to.
Maka's lashes flutter against his t-shirt. Her fingers trail lightly over Soul's back, tracing where muscle dips to the line of his spine in a way that is sure to live in his head forever.
"It only took you two days to break the pact," Maka says, voice tinged with light amusement.
Soul smiles. "No, did I really?"
Maka's head pulls away from his chest, making Soul's hand slip to the base of her neck. "You definitely did," she says, labored with sarcastic hurt.
"Darn." he sighs dramatically. "What's my punishment again?"
Maka's hands fall to rest on Soul's lower back. "Blackstar said it was a kiss-wiss, remember?" she recalls with contempt. Her face of disgust quickly melts to a grin when Soul laughs.
"Got it." Caught up in theatrics, he tugs Maka close to his chest and jokes, "So are you asking me to kiss you, Maka?"
Any trace of a smile quickly falls from Maka's face, replaced by wide eyes and locked breathing before Soul realizes a change occurred. He freezes as his words echo back to him, glancing down.
Maka is staring up at him, terrified.
Shit.
Drawn in by the semblance of normality, his tongue slipped, and the joke didn't land. His heart pounds in erratic, untamable beats, repeating over and over again: take it back, take it back, take it back.
"I…" Soul begins, but Maka isn't looking away from him.
Maka brought it up. She knew, she remembered, and she brought it up. The longer it hangs in the air, the longer their hands linger, and they don't let go.
Soul could keep them stuck here, forever, in the panicked growing of shallow breaths, unsure where to step or how to press undo. Chest and chest, thighs brushing Maka's pajamas, his palm darks to spread against the small of Maka's spine.
Maybe he meant for it to come out wrong, as a forlorn wish, tangled in confession. Maybe he should follow it; become it.
Be more you.
He doesn't think when he begins to pull Maka closer, warm palm cupping the back of her head. He doesn't breathe when his determined movements are met with pliancy, and Maka's jaw tips up.
This, Soul's mind calls faintly as it floats away, this is me.
He dips down, close enough until he can feel his breath rebound, and softly kisses Maka's forehead. Warmth presses between his lips and smooth skin, filling him with an impossible rush. His brows draw together in deep strain.
Maka's breath hitches. "So-Soul," she whispers, hands curling into the fabric on his back.
Soul carefully pulls his mouth away from the warmth of Maka's face. The tip of Maka's nose brushes against his cheek; he can feel her exhales hot on his neck.
His heart is in his throat. Maka clings to him unmoving with eyes screwed shut.
Soul's lips part, and he murmurs, "Goodnight, Maka."
The warmth slips from his palms as he slides his hands away, and he leaves Maka at the kitchen sink.