Chapter Text
“You’ll feel better once you have some food in you.”
Soul knows she’s right–Maka is almost always right, not that he’d willingly admit it–but still, he’s choosing to gripe about it.
He gripes about it all the way from his motorcycle to the glass entry doors of the restaurant, through the tightening of his meister’s grip on his wrist, until they're sliding into plush, squeaky booth seats and the hostess is shoving menus into their hands with a stifled smirk.
He bitches a little less, however, when his eyes fall upon the wide selection of food items displayed on the pages of said menus, as he flips through the smorgasbord of breakfast offerings. Banana nut pancakes and huevos rancheros, Belgian waffles and eggs benedict florentine. This place has every breakfast delicacy under the sun.
Unfortunately, the rest of the population of this po-dunk little Midwestern town must know this, too, as the restaurant is packed, and harbors every social annoyance under the sun as well.
Screaming toddlers. Middle-aged brunchers clinking their glasses of mimosa too loudly. Elderly couples staring at him obviously, their expressions aghast with horror. A crowd of servers gathered around a nearby table, presenting a young girl with a stack of birthday pancakes as they sing to her.
His head hurts, they got back to their hotel room after the mission way too late, and he’s running on a less-than-optimal amount of sleep. He wants to shovel a giant plate of scrambled eggs and bacon into his face and then promptly crash into the nearest sleep-able surface.
Soul groans and lets his head fall to the table, his forehead meeting wood with a heavy thunk. Moments later, there’s the all-too-familiar sensation of a pinch to his ear.
“You’re such a grump,” Maka giggles.
“I’m allowed.”
“Never said you weren’t,” she replies. He waits for her to continue berating him–’sit up straight already’ or ‘stop breathing on the table, it’s disgusting’- but she doesn’t. He rolls his head around, angling his eyes up to look at her, and finds her attention focused elsewhere.
“Isn’t this place just the cutest?” she muses. “I love the décor. It’s so cozy and welcoming.”
She’s gazing out at the room beyond, a twinkle of delight in her eyes as she takes it all in. Soul notices, too, for the first time–opposite them is a flickering fireplace framed by a brick hearth, and whimsical works of modern art hang upon every wall. Strategically placed ivy plants bring some color to the dining room, their jade-green, star-shaped leaves cascading down in long, elegant tendrils.
And on the wall of the booth they’re presently seated at, a lushly textured panel of artificial greenery. Maka’s flaxen head contrasts nicely against the darker shade, and–it would make for a lovely photo backdrop.
“Hey.” He sits up, suddenly feeling invigorated, and reaches a hand into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone. “Smile for me real quick?”
Maka blinks at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Are you… are you taking a picture of me?”
“No, I’m checking the weather for our flight home later,” Soul deadpans. In response, Maka sticks her tongue out at him and wrinkles her nose in an exaggerated grimace. Soul shrugs and hits the camera button, forever immortalizing the moment on digital film, and Maka blanches when she realizes he’s snapped a photo.
“H-Hey! Delete that!”
“No.”
“W-Well, take another one at least–”
“Pose nicely, then.”
Maka pouts, her cheeks visibly flushed and her brows cinched together, but before he can get that expression on film, she composes herself–adjusts her pigtails and straightens her spine, schools her face into a pleasant, soft smile. Soul lines her up in the viewfinder of his camera app, and–
Snap.
He examines the photo for several minutes, eyes darting between his meister and the image of her on his phone screen, before nodding subtly to himself.
“Well? How do I look?”
“Perfect.”
His fingers tap, tap, tap away as he uploads the picture to his story, witty caption and all–’She dragged me to a bougie brunch place instead of letting me sleep in’- and doesn’t realize Maka has fallen silent until he’s hit the post button.
When he puts his phone down and looks at her once again, she's staring at him with a strange expression on her face, her bottom lip between her teeth and her cheeks a shade of scarlet nearly rivaling his eyes.
“What?” he asks.
Maka clears her throat, runs a nervous finger idly around one of her pigtails and looks down at her lap.
“N-Nothing.”
At that moment, his phone pings–a reply to his story post from Black Star.
“Bro, you’re such a sap.”