Chapter Text
She's wearing her hair down tonight.
It's not the only thing that's jarring about Maka's appearance when she (finally) emerges from her bedroom, but it's what Soul notices first.
Her hair is down, twisted into tight spirals around her ears, and it's long– much longer than he'd realized. Long enough to disappear behind her shoulders down the middle of her back.
Long enough to make him wonder what it would feel like between his fingers, which is a weird thought that he immediately shoves away, immediately pushes back into the depths of his mind from whence it came.
Even more confounding than all of that though, she's wearing a dress.
A short, spaghetti strap dress, with ruffles at the hem. It's not much longer than the plaid skirt she typically wears as part of her daily uniform, so it's not like she's showing more leg than he's used to, but… but he can see her collarbones, and he's never seen his meister's collarbones before .
“Soul? You okay?”
Truthfully, he’s not sure which is more distracting–her hair or her dress, and he'd honestly rather die than admit he was staring at her, so naturally, he deflects.
"Me? You're the one who took an hour in there."
At this accusation, a furrow creases her brow and her lower lip pokes out in a frowny pout that really has no business being as adorable as it is, and Soul pointedly looks up at the ceiling, down at the toes of his dress shoes, anywhere but Maka's face, really. Or the rest of her.
"I did not," she argues, hands going to her hips, and, oh—her nails are painted, a fact which makes him now hyperaware of her hands also, which are usually modestly and practically hidden beneath white combat gloves. He shoves his own hands robotically into the pockets of his slacks and adds her fingers to the mental list of things not to look at. "It took me forty minutes at best," she finishes with a proud huff.
Christ, he needs to get it together. He needs to get over the apparent revelation that his meister possesses such normal human traits as collarbones and fingernails. Seeing such mundane parts of her body shouldn't be so weird for him.
Soul rolls his eyes. "Whatever."
"Honestly." She blows out a breath and shakes her head, an action that makes the twisty, curled pieces of her hair framing her face shiver and bounce emphatically, and the overwhelming urge to reach over and pull on them makes Soul's fingers itch in his pockets. "Would it kill you to tell me I look nice?"
Probably, he thinks, but instead, when he finally looks her in the eyes, his stubborn resolve withers.
"You look nice."
The words seem to surprise her as much as they do him, the way her brows shoot up and her jaws clamp shut. She gives him a curt nod, and says nothing more as they leave the apartment.
The entire ride to the Academy, Maka's bare arms burn through the layers of his dress clothes where they wrap around his waist, and it's a wonder he doesn't crash the bike. He does his best to avoid her throughout the entirety of the Founder's Day Ball, making himself scarce and retreating to the balcony at the earliest opportunity he gets. He balks at the prospect of dancing with her.
When the Academy falls under attack and they're summoned for battle, he's relieved, more than anything, because a battle means a return to her normal attire, the Maka he knows. The Maka who wears combat boots and long thick trench coats and white scythe meister gloves.
The Maka who wears her hair in pigtails.