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He's still no good at these sorts of things.
Soul enters the ballroom late, as usual, but at least this time he has an excuse - Death Scythe duties are never-ending, and just because it was an Academy holiday didn't mean the evils of the world ever gave him a friggin' day off.
Much as he claims to hate parties, he doesn't really want to miss this one, so he'd frantically showered and thrown on his dress clothes after a late arrival back to the apartment. Halfway to the event, he'd realized he'd forgotten his tie, but whatever. He doesn't have time to go back for it now, or he'll miss the whole thing.
The Academy has had many parties over the years; Lord Death never needed an excuse to break out the fine china, always eager to celebrate some victory, however small. Since Kid's coronation, a full on ball like this was no longer really commonplace, but Founder's Day was always the exception - a tradition he felt necessary to uphold, perhaps, to keep a piece of his father around.
Once inside, he scans the room for Maka, trying to quell that very annoying panic that bursts into his chest when he doesn't immediately find her. Even after years of relative peace, the notion of not being at her side should she need him leaves an unnatural terror settling into his bones. After a third loop around the room, he catches a glimpse of her out on the balcony, watching the world below.
It's a cooler Founder's Day evening than normal, and when she absently rubs at her jacket-less arm, he shakes his head, following his weapon instincts onto the veranda and coming to stand beside her.
"Hey," she says, a smile in her voice as she senses his presence. In her hand is a glass of apple cider - another Founder's Day staple that has endured over the years. The way she's leaning against the railing jogs his memory - a recollection carved into the cracked porcelain of the banister, into the feeling of dusk playing at the corners of his eyes.
As a greeting, he shrugs his way out of his suit jacket, anticipating the way her mouth opens in protest.
"I'm not cold," she says, defensive and pouting as he drapes it over her back. Despite the admonition, she tugs it more tightly around her shoulders, fingers clasping at both lapels with her free hand.
"Uh huh," he replies. "Give it back, then."
The glare she sends him is pure petulance. "...No," she mutters, her grip like a vice on the collar.
He's called her bluff and stolen her smile, a slight grin gracing his features as he looks out at the view, at the stars emerging above them. "What're you doing out here?" he asks.
She doesn't offer him an answer - she only shrugs, twirling the drink around in her glass. Again, he's hit by a memory - of him turning his own glass in circles, plagued by dreams he'd been afraid to share with her.
It's this realization that pulls the question out of him: "Everything okay?" You can talk to me about these things, y'know? he wants to add, but it sounds too much like something she would say, and he doesn't feel like getting teased about that, so he refrains.
"...Yeah," she hedges, and then, at his raised eyebrow, adds, "I was just… thinking about Founder's Days past."
A ping of surprise shoots through him, since he'd just been doing the same thing. "What about 'em?"
"Can you guess which one I'm thinking about, in particular?"
"Medusa?" he asks. When she nods, he says, grimly: "Yeah. It was a big night."
"It was the first time we used the black blood," she says. "The first time we found out about Asura. The second time we fought…"
She glances up at the moon, mid-rise into the sky, and her expression turns slightly melancholic. At his knowing glance, she shakes her head. It is neither the first nor last time that they will revisit those particular memories together, but he can sense that she doesn't want to do that tonight.
"It was the first night you called me the 'coolest partner ever,' she says, a smile returning to her face, and he chuckles.
"Dunno what I was thinking, to be honest," he says. "One minute I'm calling you the coolest partner ever, and the next I'm going through with your completely insane decision to go for a swim in the black blood–"
"I only did it because I knew you'd be there to pull me out!" she retorts. "You're…" She pauses, voice softening. "You're always there to pull me back out."
He turns to look at her and she meets his eye, a guilty smile playing at the corners of her lips. Through all of their reminiscing, another memory comes back to him, one that he would like to revisit. Something she'd asked him for, many years prior, that he wants to give her.
"...Wanna dance?" he asks. At the surprised, somewhat wary expression on her face, he adds, with a grin: "You can lead, if you want."
This gets her attention, a soft mirth lighting her gaze. "Are you sure? I've got heels on."
"You're gonna step on my toes whether you lead or not," he replies, extending his hands to reach for her despite her glare. It dissolves into another pout as she decides on her response.
"You can lead - for now," she grumbles, eyes downcast. He takes it in stride, tamping down on his smugness as her hand reaches up, fingers threading through his.
"I remember someone telling me I was good at it, once," he says lightly. On Founder's Day night, in fact.
Neither of them move to go inside, so the terrace becomes their dance floor, the emerging stars sparkling like a collection of spotlights overhead.
His hand comes to her waist and she steps into him, managing to avoid treading on his feet. He wants to comment on this, but the way their chests press together distracts him. They're standing a bit closer than what a normal waltz would call for, but he finds it difficult to mind. Dancing is good for matching soul wavelengths, she always used to say, and this time is no exception. He can feel it wrapping around him, that golden ribbon of almost-resonance beckoning through the thrum of her heartbeat against his, through the bridge where their temples touch as they sway.
"You never used to want to dance," she teases, her cheek warm against his.
It's true, and at this moment, he has no idea why. "Like I said before - wanted to keep my feet in one piece," he says, but she senses the facade easily, only humming in contentment.
They stay like this for a while, the sky slowly darkening around them. Slowly, incrementally, they move closer - his arm slipping around her back, her head resting on his shoulder. The rest of the memory has made a home in his mind, and he wonders, because of how close their minds are right now, if she can sense what he's thinking of - a plate of food, a leftover fork, left behind on the very same banister they're now dancing beside.
"The salmon was for me," he murmurs, and beneath the contentment is the slightest burst of embarrassment, of surprise, her fingers flexing against his.
"So what if it was?" she defends.
"...Why?" he asks her. She hesitates, which leads him into extra whys - why is her heart beating faster, all of a sudden? Why is her hand gripping his more tightly?
Instead of answering the question, she pulls away, faces inches apart as she watches him. "Ask me again," she says quietly. "Ask me why I was standing out here."
The whys have returned, and they're directed inward this time: Why is his throat so dry? Why can't he move under the pull of her stare?
"Why were you standing out here?" he asks, voice raw.
"...Because I wanted to dance," she says, smiling a bit sadly. "And you weren't here."
"Could've danced with someone else," he says. A snare of something that feels suspiciously like jealousy creeps into his heart at the thought.
"I could," she agrees. "But I wanted to dance with you. I–" She stops, and that tension in her stance returns, but beneath it is something warm, something that brings color into her cheeks. "I've only ever wanted to dance with you."
He stills as she pulls away completely, watching him. Even with the distance between them, their wavelengths reach out, wrapping together, warmth descending to his toes. "I'll dance with you anytime you ask," he says, his eyes roaming her face.
Her eyes are dark and unreadable in the twilight, taking him in. "...I'd like to lead now," she says carefully, almost shakily. "Can I?"
"...Yeah."
He expects her to put her hands to the sides for another waltz, so he freezes when she reaches forward, fingers slowly fisting into the fabric of his shirt, just beside his heart. He catches a soft smile on her lips before she tugs him towards her, her bangs tickling his forehead as her lips meet his in a gentle press, a silent question. His eyes widen ever so slightly before drifting slowly closed, every nerve in his body humming with the gravity of the moment, of their wavelengths meeting in a slow caress.
She pulls away and he watches her, eyes still focused on her lips, slightly parted.
"...Thanks," he says, breathless, and then, realizing how utterly stupid that sounds: "For the salmon," he clarifies, wincing. At her incredulous look, he adds, embarrassed: "I never thanked you for the salmon."
A shaky laugh bursts out of her, her eyes shining with the reflection of their million little spotlights above. He decides that he'd like to steal her smile once more, if she'd let him. Leaning down to her this time, hands at her cheeks, he thanks her for her courage, her kindness, for the way her soul has forever changed his own.
She places their foreheads together once they break apart, taking an unsteady breath as the stardust settles around them, as the urgent pull of their wavelengths subsides.
Even in this new, perfect, impossible reality, what's truly impossible is for her to go two minutes without teasing him. "You're welcome," she says quietly, and then adds, eyes dancing with mirth once more: "For the salmon."