Chapter 15

They settled on a low-ceilinged pizza shop small enough not to threaten them with an overwhelming public space, but large enough for Soul to stretch out in the warm booth without being crammed into his seat. Their post-airport lunch is light and leisurely; warm food, trivial chatter, and recounting of inside jokes blanket traces of subtle unease.

Certain pauses in conversation carry a half-given beat of awkwardness and clumsiness as they collectively learn how to exist in the same space together. Blackstar falls silent when soft chuckles die down, and Soul can tell he's nervous. Maka idly rearranges the napkin and utensils before her, and Soul guesses that means she's nervous too.

A lot can weigh on this, they know. Yet with the way that Maka smiles when Blackstar teases Soul, or how they begin what could be a week-long fight over who has the rights to his car's passenger seat, Soul feels they'll fall into comfort in no time.

Maroon leather slides against his back as he reclines in his seat, dragging a napkin over his mouth. Maka picks at her fries from across the table. Despite 'not being hungry yet,' Blackstar snags a few stray seasoned wedges, his elbows nudging Soul on the retrieval.

"I'd say this meal is pretty good," Maka says.

"It's something," Soul stares down at the small puddle of grease on the pizza tray. "Still good though. Are there any foods here that you've thought about trying?"

Maka shrugs.

"We can try that one Mexi place, I've heard Mexican food gets worse the more northeast you go in the States," Blackstar says.

Maka's dark eyes lift from her meal to meet Soul's gaze, "Up to our host."

He smiles. "Up to our guest."

"Don't lie," Maka says, "I know you have some kind of itinerary. I can feel it."

"True," Blackstar inputs before Soul can argue against it.

"Not an itinerary." He leans forward and spitefully steals fries from Maka's basket. "It's just like, a list we jotted down of stuff to do while you're here. If you want to, I mean. They're just suggestions."

Maka's eyebrows raise. "A list?"

Instead of only hearing the warm amusement lying beneath the surface of Maka's voice, Soul witnesses it happen. The way it shines in her eyes; curls her taut mouth together.

"A list," Soul repeats in confirmation. He nervously chews the fries, and raises a palm over his mouth as he muffles, "It's probably in Blackstar's room somewhere."

Maka grins. "It's handwritten?"

"I dunno why you sound so surprised," Blackstar says. "Soul makes 'em all the time."

"I did not know that." Maka looks at him, head tilting in an unspoken question.

"It's a good way to pass the time," Soul answers. Hesitance trickles into the soft syllables of his reply, and he smooths his thumb over the folded creases he's made on the napkin in his lap.

Maka smiles, quizzically. "Why handwritten, though? I use my notes app for everything."

Soul glances at her. Tracing graphite over soft lines on paper gives his world order, and traps his words in safety. What he chooses to sink into the ringed notepad of his groceries or pages of his journal is controlled; secluded.

In short, 'accidents' are harder to send.

"Writing stuff down helps me organize my thoughts a bit more," He says, keeping his tone even to not bait any more interrogation. When he sees that Maka seems satisfied with his explanation, he looks away.

"I like the lists," Blackstar says, "They're cute." He turns to nudge up the bottom hem of Soul's shirt, fingers jabbing into his lower back.

Soul leans forward slightly in confusion. "What are you-"

His leather wallet slides from the back pocket of his jeans, and is flopped heavily onto the table next to the napkins and sugar packets. He rolls his eyes.

Soul told him where he stored the small notes in confidence, and knew he was only waiting for the perfect moment to rifle through them. As he watches Blackstar flip open the wallet, and extract several folded pieces of paper stashed between credit cards and coupons- he feels inklings of regret for telling him.

Blackstar passes one to Maka, who takes it gingerly.

"You," Soul says to them both as Blackstar opens one, "Are so annoying."

"It's funny," Blackstar coos, then clears his throat. "This list is called, 'Yellow.'"

"Of course, you keep them in your wallet," Maka mutters.

Soul feels his face warm at her tone. It's a sound that borders on fondness from a summer past, but he forgets to respond when Blackstar speaks.

"Pencil, school bus," Blackstar reads from the white paper in his hands, "Fire hydrant. Buggy at house across the street." He looks up. "Soul, this is just a -"

"A list of yellow stuff I saw one week," Soul concludes, defensive.

Maka laughs. "Why?"

"Lemons. Lemonade. School bus, again," Blackstar continues. "Envelope. Another bus. Sun- the sun, dude?"

"Yellow is a nice color," Soul answers weakly. They're only mindless lists he makes to anchor down his racing thoughts. He knows they don't mean much; he could toss them in the trash without a car once completed. Yet as he watches Maka carefully unfold the brittle paper, he can't help but wonder if there could be one in the stacked pile that he doesn't want them to see.

"Why are there so many?" maka asks. She peers down at the page in hand. "This says, 'Sustar.'"

Blackstar frowns, refolding the list of yellows. "What? What's it say?"

Soul feels himself grin with recollection. "Ah."

"Pink hoodie," Maka reads, "orange juice. Phone charger, and then in parenthesis, 'broken' with a question mark. Nail polish, bubblegum-"

"Soul," Blackstar says sharply, leaning forward to yank the paper from Maka's grasp. He balls it up in his palm, while Soul chuckles at him lightly.

"I don't get it."

"Me neither, Maka." Soul begins to slip a few lists back into his wallet. "I don't remember what that one was about."

Blackstar shoves his heel into Soul's shin below the table. The smile on his face is unflinching, and he's glad his initial embarrassment turned into this.

"Bread," Blackstar says as he opens another. "Butter. Fried egg, salami, mayo, and mustard- okay. The rest of this is boring. You're boring."

Soul rolls his eyes. He remembers that one; he'd been trapped in a heated call with Wes and a few of his friends, irritated that he somehow ended up with the short stick of the conversation, and starving for a breakfast he'd neglected to make beforehand. Seething, he'd scribbled down the ingredients, until his anger was reduced to hunger pains only.

His gaze snags on a dog-eared list now resting atop the pile, worn and blue ink seeping fuzzied shapes from the inside. His eyes widen with recollection as Maka reaches for it.

Not that one.

"I think," he says, quickly grabbing it before either of his friends can, "that's enough, for now. You've made your point."

Maka notices his haste. She peers at Soul curiously, but says nothing, as Blackstar deviated from the wallet and ropes them into another conversation. The weighty shade of his eyes carries a slight glint from the fluorescents overhead.

It'll take time to get used to, he muttered when surrounded by the airport hum.

Soul hasn't agreed with anything more in his life. Throughout the duration of their drive and bickering over parking and assessment of tables and menus, seeing Maka has been surreal. Webcams and digital selfies are nothing compared to what lies before him now. Some moments feel like he's always only known Maka in person, and others as though he's meeting her for the first time.

He longs to have answers that wouldn't be right to ask over greasy pizza and fizzing soda cups. Answers to questions like; Did you miss me? Are you surprised? Do I look like you thought I would?

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Soul asks, and his jaw clenches once he realizes what's left of his lips.

You idiot, he thinks, and Maka quickly looks away, you giant idiot.

"Sorry," Maka voices in an embarrassed hush, and Soul has to keep himself from wincing.

"Does he look like you thought he would?" Blackstar questions and Soul's eyes slide sharply to see him innocently sipping from his glass.

Why would he ask- "Blackstar don't make her-"

"Sort of," Maka chimes, and Soul is rushed into silence.

He nervously glances back to see Maka looking at him, studying him, with the same expression she had standing on the terminal sidewalk. Her attention lifts to Soul's eyes.

"I think I underestimated you," Maka says, and it sounds like the words are for him, only.

His chest tightens. "That's a bad habit of yours."

Maka blinks, but her gaze is unflinching. "I know," she says.

Soul's eyebrows raise. "You know?"

"Can you pass the ketchup?" Blackstar asks.

Soul's heart pounds, Maka's eyes slip away, and he blindly passes the red, glassy bottle to his right.


"Okay, Maka," Soul says, shutting his car door once they've returned to his neighborhood. He exhales shortly. "This is my-"

"No way," Maka interrupts, as she slides out of the backseat. "You're joking."

Standing at the foot of his concrete driveway, the three peer up at Soul's house. Clouds pass sparsely on the blue sky behind the roof. Palm trees in his yard sway idly.

He side-eyes the white arches and dark shingles he's become indifferent towards. "I am not joking."

Blackstar heaves Maka's suitcase in his hands. "Tell me I was wrong. I dare you."

"Wrong about what?" Soul steps forward, forcing Maka to stir to life next to him and follow.

"You were fighting," Maka says.

He regards them with narrow eyes. "Right about what?"

"That it looks like a middle-aged mom would live here," Blackstar gives in, tossing Soul a sharp smile. Maka nods as though the observation should've been clear immediately.

"Well, I mean-" Soul tries, yet stops short in his defense. Slight embarrassment squeezes his chest as they make their way to his front door.

"Please, Soul," Maka says, and although Soul doesn't need to look to see her grin, he does anyway. Her eyes are bright and the amusement folds across her face with grace. "Continue."

"I guess you're not wrong," He carries on slowly, "Since almost all of my neighbors are in their forties-"

"Oh my god," Maka says. "You really do live in suburbia."

Soul rolls his eyes. "You live on the same property as your father, Maka."

"Shit." Blackstar's laugh earns a glare of betrayal. "Sorry, Maka, that's a K.O."

Maka shakes her head in slight disapproval as Soul turns back to the door.

"My plan is to do it all backward," Soul says. He slides his key into the lock. "Big ol' family house now, and then move to a city apartment when I'm like, sixty-five and having pains using the stairs."

"Blackstar pushes on the door once the metal clicks open. "Move to Houston."

Soul steps to the side as he holds the entrance for them. "No."

Arm stretched through the threshold, his palm pressing flat against the wood. Blackstar tugs Maka's luggage inside, narrowly avoiding Soul's knees as the bag sways intentionally in his grip.

His attention falls on Maka, whose feet are on his doormat, head under the overhand, hands within reaching distance- and eyes are fixed on Soul.

A silent breath catches in his throat. "Um," He says. "Welcome, Maka."

"I'm gonna dump this upstairs," Blackstar says, dragging the suitcase away.

When Maka moves inside, her steps are hesitant, eyes rapidly leaping from wall to wall. "I can't believe I'm actually… here," She says.

Soul's gaze slips over the back of her light hair; her thin shoulders in the tinted purple crewneck. The height of the ceiling in the foyer doubles when Maka moves deeper beneath it.

Me neither, Soul wants to say. He glides the door shut behind them.

"Well," he mutters, and Maka turns back to face him, "you better believe it."

His eyes fall on Maka's smile as it lifts across her pale features. It's a brief, impulsive flicker that sends his heart into the stratosphere the moment he realizes what he's doing.

He clears his throat. "So, I could just show you where you're sleeping, or… we could take a look around if you want."

"Are you offering me a tour?"

Soul grins. "Yes."

Maka laughs gently. "Then yes," she says.

When Soul steps past her to dramatically place himself in the center of the opening hall, he notices how Maka's attention fails to wander anywhere but his face. He spreads his arms wide, palms up.

"Let's begin," he utters. Maka's eyes squeeze with amusement at his ridiculousness, so he clears his throat for emphasis. "I have to ask that you refrain from touching anything we come across on our tour. I know you'll be tempted to-" Maka scoffs, and Soul can hardly talk through his smile.

"But everything here is very fragile. And worth millions."

"Even the 'Welcome to Cactusville' sign?" Maka asks, pointing firmly to the tacky green and orange sign Soul had grabbed from a thrift store several years back.

"Millions," He repeats. He turns to step down the hall. "And no flash photography, please."

"Okay," Maka says, pulling out her phone, and clicking her camera shutter at the 'expensive' decoration.

Soul stops abruptly when he sees the flash ricochet across the glossy walls. He stares at Maka with a wavering expression of feigned disapproval.

The look is returned to Soul, bright green and defiant.

Very slowly, Maka turns the phone tilted up in her palm threateningly towards Soul, whose face breaks into a smile immediately.

"You're such an idiot," He says in a rush, defeated as he quickly turns to avoid Maka's hypothetical photo.

"Camera shy."

"Whatever." He cranes his neck towards the direction of the stairs and cups his hands over his mouth. "Blackstar!"

After a few seconds, they hear Blackstar yell back, "What?"

"We're giving Maka a tour!" Soul shouts.

A series of intentionally heavy footsteps ensue. After only a week, Soul can distinguish with ease when Blackstar leaps lightly from the stairs and collides with the hardwood landing.

"I was looking for the kitty cat," He says, once rejoined them in the hall. Blair and Soul are one in the same; they love Blackstar, but aren't fond of his noisy feet.

"I'm sure she's around here somewhere." Soul glances at Maka. "She's a little skittish, at first."

Like you.

"Don't take it personally," Blackstar says in agreement. "She didn't let me hold her til like, my third day."

Maka comments on what 'holding' means to a guy who gave her such a life-threatening hug at the airport. Blackstar responds with something Soul asks him not to repeat, to no avail, and he's forced to let them bicker.

The tour marches on through the kitchen and living room. Blackstar dutifully agrees to help Soul as a 'guide,' and they spend most of their time entertaining Maka with lame jokes and talking over each other's words. Blackstar demonstrates the talking fridge; Maka makes comments on the cabinets and couches. When Maka glides her fingertips over the cool countertops, the tension seems to be leaving her shoulders and slipping from her face. Abundant smiles and quips lift from her mouth.

Soul keeps himself focused, gesturing to vague pieces of furniture and trying whatever he can to hear Maka's laugh echo off his walls. His heart thumps in a relentless, rapid pace against his ribs at the sight of Maka here, in his house, stepping over cushions and touching the screen door that he'd imagined she would hundreds of times. He'd certainly never imagined Maka would be this polite; noting the cleanliness, and dropping light compliments.

When they reach the backyard and stand on the concrete patio, a much-needed breath of fresh air washes over them all. Blackstar, barefoot, points at plants and makes up useless facts as they wander about Soul's 'garden'.

Hands in his pockets, Soul falls into quiet contentment as he lags behind them.

"The hot tub is over there," Blackstar says, extending an arm in the direction of the covered jacuzzi.

Soul had texted Maka about it last spring when he first purchased it, but has narrowly mentioned it since then. He's unsure why the confession of using it despite the heat of the summer would've felt too close to home. His longing for warmth, though dormant, is embarrassing.

"Maybe if it cools off enough, we can use it," Soul muses absently. His attention floats back to where Maka steps out into his yard.

The green world softens around her. Grass blades rise low on her ankles, and bend in the same breeze that ruffles gently through her hair. A light sweat graces her skin, from the hours of the stuffy plane no doubt, and the strange lack of humidity Soul knows Maka is unfamiliar with. Light blondes against sunny blue; the clouds drift closer to her in similar longing.

He wonders what Maka looked like, standing on her grandparent's farm all those weeks ago. How many minutes did it take the rain to shrink her, down to bones, and shivering skin? How many years did it take Soul to do the same?

"Has it rained?" Maka asks suddenly.

Soul's thoughts snap back down to earth once more. His lips part in silence.

Maka's voice was soft when she uttered the words, and for a reason he cannot place, Soul finds himself glancing at the back of Blackstar's head before responding, "Since… Summer?"

He recalls how quiet Maka's whispers had been when they'd spoken of rain over the phone, cozied in faint drizzle and the smell of an oncoming storm. Though he's tried to forget, he can't release the memory of the downpour turning into lightning and thunder; a mimicry of his own destruction.

Maka says nothing.

"Yeah, it has," He continues. "Nothing that strong though, yet."

He nervously loops his fingers together behind his back. He hopes his answer satisfied Maka, because he can't tell if she'd even listened to the words at all.

That is, until he watches as Maka's eyes slip back over to the patio and overhang that Soul had extended a warm palm from, in June. His pulse jumps.

Is she thinking about that call too?

"Forecast said it might in a couple of days," Blackstar says.

Soul blinks. "You… check the forecast?"

"You don't?"

Soul huffs, sparing a glance up at the sunny sky. "We really haven't needed to."

Mud squishes beneath the soles of Maka's shoes, and she sways her weight to carefully wipe off the dirt on dry grass. "Why's that?"

"It's been the same every day since I got here," Blackstar offers.

"The weather is pretty mellow," Soul agrees. "I think we're due for another bad storm soon, though." His mind wanders into memories of powerless nights as a kid, howling rain and tipping trees. "Those are the ones that carried in from the West. They flood some homes, steal electricity," His voice falls before he can steel himself for the sound of it, "And then they leave."

Maka's eyes flick to him immediately. "Like flash floods?" she asks.

"Yeah." Soul forces himself to look away. "Like flash floods."

He doesn't like the way Blackstar's gaze catches his when Maka hums, and turns away. He doesn't like how it reminds him of the sound of the phone ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

They drift past the talk of the weather, and the tour continues.


"I understand you worship your air-conditioning," Maka mutters, her shoes squeaking against the hardwood steps, "but this is a bit brisk, Soul."

Soul scowls as they reach the top of the stairs. "What do you mean? You've been here for two seconds."

"It's cold," Maka says, and her voice echoes down the hallway.

"See?" Blackstar's fingers lightly connect with Soul's shoulder. "I'm not crazy."

Soul swats him away. "You're such a baby."

"Maka agrees with me, dude. Maka." Blackstar nudges him again.

"I do agree.," Maka assists. "Unfortunately."

"You're both babies." Soul stops abruptly to force Blackstar to collide with his back. He grins, before he's shoved forward.

"Get off me."

Soul points at the series of doors down his maze of halls. "Here is your room, Maka. That's the bathroom. Down there is-"

"My room," Blackstar says.

"Yes," Soul confirms. "Other bathroom is in there, too. There's another room downstairs by the office, but-" he gestures lazily, before reaching to connect with the handle of Maka's door. "This one's bigger."

It swings open. He's careful to hover outside when Maka moves into the spare bedroom that he's fussed over one too many times. It doesn't hold much other than the bed, a dresser, and a half-open closet with board games and clutter stacked on the floor.

"My bags made it," Maka says.

Her luggage is at the foot of the bed, organized and intact. Folded towels and extra blanketing lay neatly on the white covers. Soul's teeth since into the interior of his cheek, realizing how he'd placed care into the makeup of the room.

"I almost expected them to be ransacked," Maka mutters. She raises her voice. "Thank you, Blackstar."

"Yup." Blackstar's response is quickly followed by the telling slam of the bathroom door. He's been complaining about needing a break for the past ten minutes, and as a result, was grilled for the unprofessionalism of his requests.

"Not fit to be a tour guide," Soul calls, smiling when he hears a faint 'fuck you' from down the hall. His eyes wander over the off-white walls, his brother's framed photography on the dresser- anything but Maka, and her suitcase, and her shoes as she slips them off her feet.

"Didn't want to track dirt in here," Maka says. She nudges her absurdly white shoes in a neat line near her bags. "It's so clean."

Soul hums in response. The familiarity nags at him.

"Did you vacuum-" Soul begins to ask, but Soul clears his throat. "Oh, sorry."

"What? Oh, no, I wasn't- I didn't mean to interrupt," Soul rushes.

"Then why did you-" Maka imitates the deep caught, poorly, "Huh-hem."

"I didn't huh-hem, I was just getting spit out of my throat."

"Sounds like what you do when you have something to say," Maka muses, moving back to the door. She's several strides away when Soul finally looks down at her again. "So?"

"I don't," Soul says quickly. "I don't have anything to say, I'm just- just nervous."

God.

"You're nervous," Maka repeats. She steps into the hall as Soul sways away from her.

"I am."

Maka smiles. "That's dumb."

Soul's gaze is soft. His voice is warm. "It is."

White rays fall from the skylight near the stairs, fuzzy on the walls and in the air between them. Soul can hear the beat of his heart, and the light shuffle of Maka's socks on the wood floor as she passes down the hall in exploration.

Soul follows her.

Maka stops in front of Soul's bedroom door. "You didn't tell me what this one is."

"That's mine," Soul explains vaguely, and the second the words leave his mouth, Maka's palm is on the brass handle and pushing inside. "Oh-" The wood glides open easily as Maka enters. "You really don't have to-"

He's not sure what it is about the still air that seeps into their clothes in warm greeting, but it slows them both. Time sinks into molasses; dust carries from the sheer curtains. Maka's steps gradually decline until she's standing still, in the heart of it all.

His room has been a space of constant change in recent weeks. Soul has rearranged his dark dresser and computer setup, cleaned out old shelves, and torn doors off his closet. The surfaces are decluttered, more foam panels cover the walls, and sticky notes cling to his monitors. He's been determined to redefine what this place of comfort truly means to him.

"Yours," Maka echoes with curiosity. She turns, and her eyes slowly flick over the furniture and broad walls.

Soul leans against the door frame, wood digging into the muscle of his shoulder. His hands idly find his pockets again, as he asks, "What do you think?"

"What do I think," Maka repeats in a drawl, and Soul bites back a smile. "Hmm."

"Do you like it?" he asks. Though playful, the question gnaws at his ribs.

They've spoken in their separation, but any conversation shared prior pales in comparison to this. Brief moments of lingering after group streams or quick calls for questions are nothing like this; Maka in his room, talking to him alone, works wary but warm.

"You could use a few more decorations," Maka says dismissively.

He lets out a forlong sign. "I know. I've been moving most of my old stuff to the office, whenever I finish that up."

His heart pounds as silence settles calmly over them again.

"It's very… you," Maka murmurs, moving away from the center of the wide room.

Soul watches as she meanders carefully. "What do you mean?"

The black frame of his desk chair turns when Maka nudges it idly with her fingers. She looks impossibly small next to the mesh seat, in a room with ceilings Soul hasn't considered particularly tall until now.

"I don't know." Maka hovers over his desk, observing the knick-knacks scattered there. "It seems like you only keep the stuff you really need." Her mouth presses together in a light smile. "Like this… snow globe?"

Soul's gaze falls to the small, rounded object perched near his keyboard. The base is a brightly colored scene of the ocean floor, with kelp and sand protruding with a physical texture that his thumbs are familiar with. Inside the glass is a dolphin, perched on a crashing wave.

"Yeah," Soul says. "I set it down there once and just… never took it off. When I'm at my desk for a while, it's fun to-" He makes a tipping motion with a half-cupped palm. Maka smiles at him, and his heart thumps in his chest. "You can uh, pick it up if you'd like."

Maka carefully takes the transparent sphere in hand and mimics Soul's movement. The glass turns, bubbles running along the curved interior. Flakes of white and glittering blue cascade over the animal's fins.

"Where did you get it?" Maka asks.

"It was a gift," He says warmly. "My brother bought it at the aquarium for my birthday, last month. He said he was torn between that one and a jellyfish."

"That's very sweet." Maka carefully returns the snow globe to the desk. "Did you spend it with your family like usual?"

Soul's lips part, before he utters, "Yeah, I did."

She knows me, he reminds himself. Of course, she knows me.

Maka nudges something else on the desk. "And what about this?"

Soul cranes his neck to see. Maka holds up the accordion-style tower of sticky notes that crisscross as they descend from her palm.

"I get bored," he answers defensively. He'd crafted that paper construction nights prior, when he'd considered the possibility of this moment between them. He'd planned to keep his door shut tight, and not allow it to happen at all. Out of sight, out of mind.

Yet, Maka has always had a gift for surprises.

She carries on moseying over the content of Soul's room, picking objects in a shy manner and asking questions that are curious, and patient. When small stories fall from Soul's mouth to answer, she listens dutifully.

After a certain beat, Soul sheepishly glances up. "Sorry, I've told you this one before."

"That's alright," Maka says and waits for him to continue.

Soul's heart refuses to cease racing, with Maka in the center of his room, the center of his world. It wracks at his nerves and threatens to reveal the furious fondness he's successfully keeping at bay; biting back smiles, fighting a flush.

He realizes he wasn't ready for the unexpected intimacy of this part of their 'tour'. It feels like an invitation to the core of his heart, and almost knowingly, Maka enters with care. Her movements are cautious as she explores the room, and she seems to only touch items after Soul states it's okay.

"It's very you," Maka repeats, with more confidence than before.

Through the mirror hanging opposite of the doorway, Soul watches as Maka turns to meet his eyes in the reflection.

"Nothing flashy, very clean," she says pointedly, and Soul feels his face warm at her smile. "It feels honest."

Behind smudges and a thin layer of dust, Maka's echoed image pushes Soul into silence. His gaze slides away from the glass trap and to the real Maka's back, as she begins to read the Post-it notes stuck to the base of his mirror.

Soul wonders, ruefully, what is honest about the way he's refused to move from the doorway and enclose them in a small room together. Or about the leftover note, on the side of his mirror, words underlined three times that say, 'Don't call her.'

As though pulled by Soul's thoughts, Maka raises a hand towards the yellowed slip, and gently runs a thumb over the curled paper edge. Her brows draw together as her touch falls away.

Soul's heart pounds.

Maka turns, and lifts her eyes to look at him. The deep-set green and rigid lines on her slim face are tinted with what could be sorrow; what could be an apology.

Soul doesn't know, yet, if this is what gentle remorse looks like on Maka's face. All he can be sure of is that he's never seen this before, not from video calls or messages late at night.

"I'm glad to have you here," Soul says, the words quiet and slow, because he has nothing but truth to give.

Somehow, Maka's expression softens. "Thank you," she murmurs, "Soul."

Soul's jaw tightens as the name leaves her lips. In all their years of digital connection, Maka has only muttered it when hidden from view. Faceless, like Soul has been, as if there was a confession there she didn't want him to see.

Yet she now stands paces away across the room, finally out of the computer screens she was trapped in for so long. Her voice matches her eyes, and Soul feels he may understand what it could be.

A door shuts loudly down the hall, and Soul sharply looks away. He can't afford to fall prey to his wishful thinking.

"I just took," Blackstar says, laying a sudden hand on Soul's shoulder, "thebiggest shit of my life."

Soul turns to cease blocking the doorway, and sighs. "Congratulations."

They're drawn out into the hallway when rejoined by Blackstar again. Maka slips from the room, and the only trace she'd been there is a figurine or two out of place. Soul carefully shuts his door behind them.


Once the showcasing of Soul's house has finally drawn to a close, they consider what to do with the rest of their day. Maka hesitantly points out that she took a red-eye flight, and is fairly drained because of it. They make a communal decision to do nothing, and as Blackstar puts it 'chill with the homies.'

They sit in the living room and talk for hours, sometimes pulling out phones and sharing photos or humorous posts they've seen. It feels exactly like their mindless Discord calls, where they chat and laugh and poke fun but end up not discussing much of anything. Except now, when Soul poses a question that makes them sit in a contemplative pause, he can see the furrowing features on their faces, and catch small moments of Maka communicating silently to Blackstar like a pair of twisted twins.

"Do you private message each other when we're all on call together?" Soul asks curiously.

"Yeah," Maka answers, as Blackstar says, "All the time."

He rolls his eyes, and resumes searching for whatever photo he'd promised to share with Maka. Shortly after, Blackstar confirms that the right time has finally come to confront his leftovers from their lunch earlier.

As they migrate to the dining room, Maka clears her throat. "Soul."

Soul pulls a chair from the table and lowers into it. "Yeah?"

Maka raises a palm to knead the back of her neck, hovering in the doorway. "Um, do you think I could take a shower? I kind of hate having the airport stink on me for this long."

Soul finds himself smiling at her hesitancy. "Yeah, of course. The one in the hall is better than Star's, but the handle is kinda weird. The temperatures are switched."

"Why," Maka says slowly, "wouldn't you get that fixed?"

Soul shrugs. "There should be some towels on your bed, so you're good to go." His voice softens playfully. "You know you don't have to get permission to shower, right?"

"I know," Maka rushes. "I know that, I'm just…"

"Nervous?" Soul echoes.

"No." Her expression is flat, but inklings of amusement trickle through. "Why would I be nervous Soul?"

His eyebrows raise. "Why would you be nervous, Maka?"

He is met with silence, a warm glower until Blackstar walks up behind Maka with a warm plate of food.

"'Scuse me," He says.

Maka steps to the side.

As Blackstar passes by him to tug out a chair from the table, Soul gives Maka an expectant look that says, Go.

The moment she disappeared from the entryway and they can hear her light feet traveling up the stairs, Soul deflates in a face-first slump onto the table. He buries his head in his forearms, trapping himself in darkness and the warm rebounding of his breath. His hand's sprawl against the wood tiredly.

A sigh, from deep in the rise and fall of his ribs escapes him.

Blackstar wordlessly pats his back. Soul makes a feeble grunt in return.

"So," he says between bites. "How's it."

"This is a lot." Soul muffles. "Going from not really talking, to this."

"Yeah."

After a quiet pause, his hand is taken in Blackstar's and pried open. A warm greasy parcel of food is set into his limp fingers.

He slowly lifts his head, and looks at the french fry. "Bless you," he says.

They continue to eat in comfortable silence.

When Maka returns from her shower, her hair is damp and frayed fuzzy at the edges. Her clothes are clean, she smiles with ease and yawns several times when responding to Blackstar's question concerning a movie for them to watch. If Soul harbors fond feelings for any of it, he doesn't let himself think or speak on it at all.

The rest of their night moves in slow grace, lost in the casualty of couch cushions and a disappearing sun. They turn on the TV and berate Soul for the series of pre-recorded soccer games that hog his DVR. Though collectively tired, they combat the pull of sleep until words slur and eyes grow heavy. Blackstar begins to nod off with his head tilted against the back of the couch.

"Is he…" Maka's voice trails off, the low mumble from the TV filling her silence. She's peering at Blackstar with an amused smirk.

Arm slung on the back of the sofa, Soul glances down where Blackstar's head rests against the crook of his elbow. His chest rises and falls with a slow, tell-tale rhythm, his eyes shut and dark brows relaxed in deep sleep.

"This is what happens when he stays up all night on his phone," he mutters, careful not to wake him.

Maka huffs quietly. "You're starting to sound like a worried father."

"I'm starting to feel like one."

Maka's laugh is gentle, and Soul's eyes drift off of Blackstar to settle on her. Leagues away across the couch, the pale blues from the TV wash over her tired smile. Cozied in the darkness of the night, baits Soul's breath away.

"Are you tired?" he asks, voice far too soft for the jokes they'd shared before.

Maka glances up at him, and hesitantly answers, "...a little, yeah."

Soul nods. "Right. Me too."

The next episode on the screen begins to play, and he eyes the remote resting on the coffee table. Soft sounds from the speakers drift over the colorful buttons. It'd be easy, he knows, to lean forward and power down the TV before them with a simple click. He doesn't make a move to grab it; Maka doesn't make a move to leave.

He watches Maka's heavy eyes blink at the TV, and can't help but indulge the small flicker of warmth in his chest. For a moment, he imagines staying here till dawn; dozing off, waking with stiff necks and aching spines, cleaning the living room in the half-morning light. He knows Maka prefers sunrise over sunsets, and wonders if Nevada would showcase beautiful pinks and oranges from its East.

Then Blackstar stirs next to him, face turning and sinking into his shoulder with a sleepy huff. Even with his nose face-first in Soul's armpit, he doesn't wake.

Soul rolls his eyes. He glances up to see if Maka has fallen asleep too, only to find she's already looking their way.

"Should we call it?" Maka asks, eyes dancing between Soul and the tired boy leaning into his side.

"Yeah," Soul says. "I think we should."

After they've shaken Blackstar awake to part for the night, and a blend of careful or groggy 'goodnights' are tossed between them, Soul finally sinks into his tightly made bed.

He wraps himself deep in covers and sheets and hums into the welcome of his cold pillowcase, but rest escapes him. His eyes become lost in the light glinting off the bedroom window. With tired hands, he tugs the think curtain shut, and his stare slides back to the wood of his door.

Sleeping across the hall, Maka is here. Doors down, Blackstar is presumably doing the same. They're all together for the first time in years of wishing, and joking, and working for it.

The surreality is not lost on him. It feels as though the moment he retreated to his room, and final silence echoed through his house, that this is all that's left; him, his beating heart, the closed window, and the closed door. It could have never happened, he could have never gone to the airport or held Maka in his arms and will wake up tomorrow to feed Blair without bumping into his lifelong friends in the hallway.

The night is the same as it was before when Maka wasn't here. It's as quiet as it was over a week ago when Blackstar hadn't arrived yet either.

I expected everything to change, he thinks, as he rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Yet nothing has. Not yet.

Stored in the drawer of his nightstand, his phone rumbles against the near-empty wood. The rattling sound breaks the quiet of the night, and he frowns. Very few notifications are permitted to surpass his 'do not disturb,' boundaries.

He rolls over and tugs the compartment open. Withdrawing the device, his eyes skim over the glowing message on the screen.

Maka, who should be asleep, texted him.

His pulse quickens, and he swipes to open their conversation. The bright colors and dark letters make him squint, washing his features pale as he observes the message that reads:

Your house is cool.

A bashful smile leaps across Soul's face in seconds. His eyes lift to glance at his shut door again, as though he can somehow see Maka huddled in the guest bed beyond it. He should find it ridiculous, really, that Maka is lying awake so late in the night, and wanted to reach out about such an unimportant observation.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard while a flurry of possible responses floods his mind, and he feels the comforting pull of triviality. He wants to talk to her about today, what it was like for them to truly meet for the first time, and how he too longs to retreat back towards their online messages to make sense of it. Yet, they're both tired, both uneasy and simplicity is best.

Thanks, he types back, knowing he'll get no response, knowing he'll fall asleep with a dizzied smile at the very thought of Maka's lingering presence, I bought it myself.