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The first time, it was his eyes that intrigued her the most.
Bright, hot red, matching his bright hot smile as it curved unevenly across his face, higher on the left side than the right, teeth peeking out between his lips. Some were unnerved by the combination: crimson eyes and a sharp smirk, but Maka only felt the faint buzz of captivation, the magnetic pull.
Those eyes held his soul in them. Even then, she could see it trembling with suppressed energy – hot, young, shivering with its potential.
“This is who I am.” he had said, his olive hands flying across the piano keys and coaxing from them a dark, powerful melody that reached into her and grasped clumsily at her soul. His hair was ash-white, a stark contrast to his black suit and blood-red tie. She stood there, hands behind her back, listening with her blood running hot and hopeful.
“So,” Soul breathed out when he had finished, turning to face her, that smirk already halfway to his lips, white hair across his eyes. “You seem pretty cool. Wanna be partners?”
She liked the way the word ‘partner’ sounded in his mouth.
Through those eyes, red and shining, she felt his soul touch hers – thrumming with energy and glee. She smiled at him, and his palm was warm against hers as they shook to seal the deal.
--
Looking back on it, Maka imagines that perhaps she was even charmed by him, that first time.
The boy with the white hair and red eyes, he was a contradiction from the moment his messy grin said ‘beware' yet his soul murmured ‘hello. I’ve been waiting for you’. Maka Albarn was never one for simplicity, after all.
She can’t help but smile at the thought, a cushion at her back and Soul’s socked feet in her lap, the television flashing bright but quiet into the dark room. She’d turned the sound off a while ago, once she had realised that Soul’s body had slumped against the back of the couch and he had fallen asleep.
Imagine, Soul Eater Evans being described as charming.
He usually likes to push them back from his face with a hairband, but now, his fluffy ashen bangs fall freely across his forehead, brushing his temple and the dark smudges of his eyelashes, sticking up against the green leather. His mouth hangs half-open, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. His arms are folded loosely against his chest and his brow is relaxed in slumber, so often furrowed into a frown that she imagines rubbing away with her thumb.
Maka curves her hand around his ankle, feels the warmth and the brush of bare skin against her fingertips. He doesn’t stir – she knows he sleeps like the dead, anyway.
Once they had become partners, she remembers being almost left reeling at how easily they slotted into each other’s lives. Soul’s scythe was light in her hands, yet filled with quiet power as she sliced through the air, spun him in her grasp. They moved in together, and he drank milk from the cartons and she left books on the kitchen table and they took turns cooking, and it worked. They argued, they both forgot to do the washing-up, they both slept through their alarms and had to yell at each other to get up; but yet their souls always fell back into alignment and it was alright again. Even when Blair moved in and brought all her annoying habits with her, it still managed to work. They were partners. They are partners.
Even on the days where she felt like grabbing him by the collar and putting a blooming, violet bruise on his face; the days when his words carved into her like a blade and anger made his smirk harden and his shoulders curl - a hot palm against her shoulder, the scent of his aftershave and the cotton of his jacket against her cheek made the anger bleed out of her very fingertips, his body deflate in relief.
Soul smells like copper, like cinnamon and burnt rubber. Motor oil, and a little like the last thing he ate.
Maka, eyes beginning to itch from exhaustion, switches the TV off with a sigh and a stretch. Soul is still sleeping soundly, his neck curved at an uncomfortable angle, head drooping downwards. Gently shifting his ankles from her lap, she stands and walks beside him, knowing he will be aching tomorrow if she let him stay there through the night. She touches his shoulder, the corner of his jaw, running her fingers through his hair like he does when he’s tired or trying to remember something he’s forgotten. It’s soft and thick against her skin.
He shifts, and she lets her hand drop as he tilts his head upwards, eyes peeking open and mouth tightening in a sleepy smile of understanding. Even in the dusk, his eyes are bright crimson as they connect with hers.
--
She likes: the way his tongue peeks out from between his teeth when he’s concentrating, when he pushes the hair out of his eyes, the way he sometimes murmurs half-formed words in his sleep. She likes the way her name sounds in his mouth, when he laughs so hard he cries, the way he cuts vegetables extra small and the feel of his palm against hers. She likes his grin - especially the way it’s higher on one side than the other. She likes hearing his voice when they battle together.
She likes watching him when he’s listening to music – the minute movement of his foot tapping to the rhythm, the way his eyes sometimes slip closed and his fingers drum against his thigh. She likes the warmth of his back when she sits behind him on his motorcycle, the way she can feel his grin and the brush of the wind against her face.
She likes his red eyes and his white hair, the slope of his back and when she can sometimes see a sliver of his bare hip when his shirt rides up.
--
Sometimes, very very rarely, he plays for her.
She doesn’t ask, not very often, knowing all too well the reasons why he usually steers clear of it.
But, occasionally, they’ll hear the feathery melody of piano keys echoing in a hallway, spot a grand piano looming silently in the corner of a room, and she’ll look at him and his shoulders will slump in defeat - a smile touching the corner of his mouth all the same.
He’ll sit, fingers gliding across the keys. Sometimes he’ll bring dark, heavy melodies; other times wavy and gleeful. She’ll lean against the side of the instrument and listen, lips parted and eyes often closed. And then, they’ll move away and walk off into the night, not saying a word about it.
Later, she’ll run it through over and over again in her head, feel the tune rattling around in her chest as she falls asleep. It touches her soul, fingertip-light, envelops her heart like warm honey. She may not appreciate music to the depth that Soul does; but the melodies that Soul coaxes from those keys, she can feel his soul inside them. Within them, she can see his crooked smile, the flash of his red eyes - and that’s enough.
She’s grateful to have that bit of him.
--
It’s hard to get used to the throbbing behind your eyelids, the ache of your bones associated with waking up in a hospital bed. It’s bright and the air smells of blood, Maka’s stomach lurching at the scent, head protesting at the sudden shudder that jolts through her body. She moans unhappily.
Her fringe is brushed back from her face, and something cool and damp is suddenly being pressed against her forehead, gently guiding her back against the pillows. She sighs, her eyes squinting open to the sight of olive skin, red eyes light with relief beneath a furrowed brow.
“Hey there. Welcome back.” Soul says softly, moving the flannel away and brushing the moisture from her skin with the back of his fingers. The circles underneath his eyes are slightly darker than usual, his hair messy and flattened on one side. His mouth ticks up in a warm smile though, hand squeezing where it is wrapped around hers.
“You took quite a hit.” he tells her, running his fingers through her hair, stroking it back from her face.
“Feels like it.” She says thickly, letting her eyes slip closed again, dizzy on drugs and pain and the smell of blood and Soul’s skin. The tips of his fingers are cold, the palm of his hand clammy. Maka thinks she can feel a tremble in his grasp but it could be just her imagination.
“I’ll get the nurse, now that you’ve woken up.” he says, voice low and rough. It’s a warmth curling through her veins.
She wants to ask him to stay, to hold her hand some more, to stroke the hair at her temple that curls against her skin when she lets it dry naturally. She wants to press her nose to his neck, smell the motor oil and cinnamon, feel the texture of his hair between her fingers. She wants to ask him if the pink around his eyes is from crying.
He stands up, and she hears him leave the room. In her drug-addled haze, she presses her palm to her mouth, imagines she can feel the residual warmth from his touch. She forgets about her own body heat.
--
It hurts to look at him, sometimes. When he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth in thought, when the milk misses the mug as he’s making coffee in the morning and lands on his wrist instead. When he brings the skin to his mouth to lick it off. It brings a sharp, inexplicable ache in between Maka’s ribs, forces her to look away and busy herself with something else.
It hurts when that stupid lopsided grin is painted across his mouth at the end of a battle, his red eyes bright and his chest heaving; Maka having to turn her face to the floor with the pain seizing in her chest and in her stomach that has nothing to do with the opponent’s punches. It hurts: the smell of Soul’s sweat and his hair when he presses his hand to her shoulder, asks her if she’s alright.
It’s a good pain though, she thinks - like pushing a fractured bone back into place, or pulling a thorn out of your leg. (A poor analogy perhaps, she thinks again later.)
She calls him for dinner one night, gets no answer, so opens the door to his room to find out why. He’s slumped over an open textbook on his desk, asleep with his mouth open and one arm hanging down. His fist remains curled around a pencil.
The pain comes again, squeezing at her heart like hot, trembling fingers and it makes her breathless. But this time, something sweet and syrupy runs through her veins too. Something that makes her feel lighter, something that makes her skin feel shivery and her fingers twitchy. The room smells like him, and it calms her right down to her soul.
She turns the light off, picks a blanket up off the bed and drapes it carefully around his shoulders. She stands close, mouth parted and close to his hair, breathing him in. He smells of coffee and cinnamon, of sweat and sharpened pencils.
Moving away before she has the chance to wake him, she puts his dinner in the microwave and a note on the kitchen table, sits on the couch with a book for a bit.
Later, she wakes warm, with the room in dusk and the smell of cinnamon and sweat at her face. The blanket she last saw around Soul’s shoulders is tucked up at her chin, around her feet which are always a little too cold anyway - her book on the coffee table and her page marked with the note she left on the kitchen table. A smile touches her lips - that light, shivery feeling rubbing like warm hands up the skin of her arms and legs. Her eyes drift closed again, and later she dreams of the wind whipping her hair, her hands gripping Soul’s jacket and the insistent growl of a motorcycle.
--
He drinks milk from the cartons, eats sushi with his fingers and throws popcorn at Maka’s head whenever she’s unlucky enough to go to the movies with him. His favourite dessert is apple cake.
She comes home one day to the overwhelming scent of cinnamon and fresh baking, Soul humming quietly to himself in the kitchen. She walks in and he smiles at her, one side higher than the other.
“Want some?” he asks, offering her a spoon smeared with yellow cake mix.
She raises an eyebrow at him, dumping her bag at the corner of the room before stepping over and taking the proffered spoon.
“Got a bit peckish, huh? You’d better clean all this up.” She says, gesturing to the dirty work surfaces and various bowls littering their kitchen. She pops the spoon in her mouth, the taste of sugar and cinnamon wrapping themselves around her tongue. A smirk touches Soul’s lips.
“None of the bakeries in town do apple pie like I do.” He huffs. “Besides, I did the baking, that means you have to do the washing up.”
“That isn’t fair! It’s not like I asked you to bake, I’m not even going to eat it!” she takes the spoon out of her mouth, tosses it in the sink.
“Yes you will, you know you can never resist my apple cake.” he says, chest swelling with smugness.
Bowl in hand, in a flash he’s sticking his finger in the leftover mix and dabbing it on the end of Maka’s nose, face split in half with his white shining grin. Her mouth falls open in shock.
“Jerk!” she cries, lunging forward for the bowl. He lurches it away from her, giggling like a schoolboy.
“Agree to do the cleaning up!” he yells, taking another scoop out of the bowl and managing to smear it across her cheekbone before darting to the other side of the room. She scurries after him, breathless, barely able to keep the smile from her face.
“No!” she shouts back, ducking towards him and managing to tear the bowl from his grasp. She gets to treasure the moment of fear on his face before sticking her whole hand in and wiping a neat line of sticky yellow paste down the centre of his face. His mouth drops open. Like a goldfish, she thinks, almost folding in half with laughter.
His face twists into a snarl, made ridiculous by the sugary gloop dripping from his chin, sticking his hair to his forehead.
“You’re dead, Maka Albarn.” he growls. She’s barely able to poke her tongue out at him before he’s advancing on her, unaffected by the dollops of mix she attempts to flick at him.
Giggles fill the room like warm air, closely followed by squeals as he jabs sharp fingers into her waist and tickles. She screams, tries to scramble away but Soul has her pinned to the wall, tickling and tickling her without mercy.
“Stop!” she gasps, the bowl clattering to the floor as she desperately attempts to shove his relentless hands away, shrieking with breathless laughter. His fingers are hard and merciless as they poke and prod at her torso, her efforts to try and twist away fruitless. “Stop, asshole!”
“Say you’ll clean up!” he demands, words muffled when she pushes her palm into his cheek. She feels the warmth of his skin, the stickiness of the cake mix and the curve of his grin.
“Alright! Alright!” she relents, “Let go!”
He yields, moving away and letting her catch her breath. Pink cheeks and a bright smirk light up his face, chaotic hair tacky and sticking up in every direction; his red eyes sparkling with mirth. He’s beautiful.
Maka feels a fierce stab of possessiveness for this ball of chaos and laughter in the form of a boy; her boy with red eyes and white hair and hot blood, with a dangerous smile and warm skin. It pierces her heart, leaves her breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion, leaves a buzz in her veins.
“Not cool, Maka.” Soul says, nose wrinkling in disgust as he attempts to wipe the cake mix from his eyes and his hair. “I’ll have to take a shower now.”
“You started it.” she points out, wiping her face with her sleeve and unable to keep from grinning at him. The muscles of her stomach ache from laughing and Soul’s sharp fingers.
He tuts at her, picking the bowl off the floor and dropping it in the sink, scrubbing his chin with the sleeve of his hoodie. He moves over to the oven, tongue lingering on his bottom lip as he peers in to check on his cake’s progress.
“Looks about done.” He muses, reaching to take it out, the smell of hot fresh cake swelling in the room.
They eat the whole thing between them, still sticky and pink-cheeked and chatting happily between mouthfuls of warm apple cake. Soul leans back in his chair when he’s finished, sighing in elation and raising an expectant eyebrow at Maka. She rolls her eyes, gets up and steps towards the sink. The taste of cinnamon and apple and brown sugar remains on her tongue, and it tastes a lot like happiness.
She looks over at Soul, arms stretched over his head and mouth agape in a yawn. He licks his lips, still crumby, and she finds herself imagining what it would be like to kiss him.
--
It all goes to hell a few weeks later.
The ground is hard and scrapes against her knees as she just manages to dodge an attack meant for her head, the creature’s tongue lolling in sick glee and claws stretching towards her. She turns, manages to smack the creature hard around the head with the bottom end of the scythe and push the thing away from her, regaining her ground.
“This isn’t working. I can’t get close enough to attack properly.” she huffs, her words clipped and frustrated.
“We need to take it by surprise.” Soul says, voice hard. “Distract it, and then attack in its weak spot.”
“Right.” she agrees, mind working fast and hands twisting her weapon to point towards the tainted soul, its revolting body crouching in preparation. The metal of Soul’s scythe is warm against her palm. It grounds her.
They both move at the same time, the creature lumbering but fast in its advance towards her. She leaps at the last minute, using her momentum to shove the creature’s face to the ground with the back of the blade, twisting in mid-air and preparing to slice through its neck.
The creature suddenly moves to face her, too fast, too fast, and before she has time to think it’s launching its body towards her, claws like blades as they stretch towards her, aiming for her heart. Her body is falling and she knows its claws will have pierced her flesh before she has the chance to block the attack.
In an instant her hand is cold and empty, and she doesn’t register the scream of agony before her body crashes to the hard ground, something warm and heavy landing on top of her.
No.
No.
Her head pounds. She struggles out from under Soul’s limp body, heart in her throat as her eyes land on the body of the creature. It slumps on the ground, blood pouring from the wound that has carved it practically in half, before its form dissolves into the air and a red Kishin egg remains.
She darts her eyes to Soul, the scythe blade curving from his shoulder only just transforming back into the arm of a boy. There’s a hole in his gut, hot red blood pouring out, soaking his shirt.
“Soul!” she yells, falling to her knees next to him. She rips her coat off and presses it hard against the wound. An agonised groan slips from Soul’s mouth, raw and wet and terrifying.
“You idiot. You idiot.” she gasps out, hurriedly propping his head up in her lap whilst leaning to push the screwed up material of her coat into his gut. Blood has already drenched it, soaking hot and red against her hands and the sleeve of her jacket. Distantly, it reminds her of his eyes - except darker, without the lightness of his laughter to make her heart feel light and fluttery in her chest. The heavy metallic scent fills up her sinuses.
“Talk to me, Soul.” she begs, “Stay with me.”
That famous smile just manages to touch his lips, still higher on one side than the other. It’s weak, and not reflected in his eyes this time.
“Wanna hear something stupid?” he mumbles, eyes already half closed, his bottom lip coated with blood.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
--
The beep of the heart monitor is too loud, the lights too bright against her aching eyes.
She sits with her back ramrod-straight, watching his face slack and pale with unconsciousness, her fingertips pressed against the pulse in his wrist – just to be sure.
Even under the hospital gown she can see the swell of the bandages, and the neckline slips low enough for the edge of his old scar to show. She feels the nausea rise heavy inside of her, mouth falling open as she tries to breathe through it. The pain is like a hot blade lodged in her chest, like a stone in her throat, like her heart broken in two.
She stands weakly. Pressing her face carefully to his neck, she breathes in, smelling only antiseptic and the faint copper scent of blood.
It hurts. Not a good pain this time, only agony and a heavy weight in the centre of her chest. Her skin shivers with fear. She remembers the first time, sitting by his hospital bed with a lump like lead in her throat, thinking about the rip in his torso just underneath the thin hospital sheet, vowing quietly to become stronger for him. The pain seems only to have intensified.
She feels the tears come and she can’t bring herself to stop them. They soak Soul’s hospital gown, run down her chin, hot and wet against her neck and under her collar.
“Wake up.” she whispers, wants to scream. “I think I’m in love with you too.”
--
“I could get used to this.” Soul sighs, voice catching on the edge of pain as he tries to adjust himself on the couch. Maka drapes the duvet over his body, careful not to touch.
“Yeah yeah, I’m not your handmaid or anything.” she reminds him, watching as he settles heavily against the cushions, his eyelids fluttering. He holds his hand out, palm outstretched, and she rolls her eyes before placing the TV remote in his grasp.
“Maybe, but I still have an excuse not to do any cooking or cleaning for the next few weeks.” he opens one eye, crimson and bright with a hint of mirth, his mouth ticking up in a grin. Her heart swells at the sight and she has to turn away quickly.
“I’ll get your painkillers and some tea.” she says quietly, ducking into the kitchen, pushing down the tears that prick dangerously at her eyes. She flicks the kettle on, shoves her fists into her eyes until they hurt.
She wants to lie next to him, to feel his warmth, press her fingers to his neck if only just to feel the life still pumping through him. She wants to press her face to his hair, to smell apple cake and motor oil, the ham sandwich he had for lunch. She wants him to laugh, to see his red eyes sparkle.
I think I’m in love with you.
It was a mistake. Something said in delirium, by someone slipping into unconsciousness, by someone who’s life was pouring out pint by pint onto a hard, unforgiving ground.
So why can’t she stop thinking about it?
It’s hard to look at him now, with the words hard and insistent in her memory. She knows he’s noticed her distance, puzzlement in his eyes every time she’s had to turn away from his gaze and move quickly from the room, cold hard hands squeezing at her heart.
She had to help him change his dressings one evening, and the sight of the still-raw wound carved angry and red into his gut alongside the huge white scar across his torso almost tore her apart from the inside – two times her stupid mistake had cost Soul his blood and flesh. She wrapped a fresh bandage around his stomach as quickly as she could, half-helping him to bed before crumpling in her room with silent sobs.
I think I’m in love with you.
There would be no reason for it – how could he possibly be in love with her, when she can’t even protect him from harm, when she can barely look at him before guilt seizes her gut and she has to turn away? A weapon has no use for a meister unable to hold her nerve, unable to stay strong and stoic in the face of mortality – much less hold any love for her.
I think I’m in love with you too.
The trouble is, that she had never spoken anything of more truth in her life.
--
When he’s angry his shoulders draw up, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkle and his mouth downturns. His eyes darken, his hands shove into his pockets, his teeth peek out in a snarl.
She looks at her feet, fists clenched.
“So what’s with you, huh?” he probes, the quietness of his voice doing little to disguise the undercurrent of steel, of sizzling frustration.
The linoleum floor is scuffed and worn, painted with black marks from the soles of their shoes.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” she lies. Why is she doing that?
He growls in hot irritation. “Would you at least look at me?” he demands, voice raising, anger rising like hot steam. He reaches out, grabs her by the shoulders, ducks his head until she’s forced to look at him. His red eyes are stormy and his brow is furrowed into a hard line.
“I know what this about.” he says roughly, “Haven’t we been through all this shit before?” He shakes her shoulders gently but firmly. “Huh, Maka? Haven’t we done this crap already?”
His words are full of jagged edges, they hurt like tiny daggers stabbing into her gut. He shakes her again.
“Talk to me, for fuck’s sake!” he reaches down, grabs her hands instead, brings them up and squeezes them until she feels their bones grinding together. “We’re partners, aren’t we? What’s the point if we can’t talk about this, if we can’t get past all this useless bullshit?!”
She feels her face crumple; her hands begin to shake within his grasp.
“I can’t protect you.” she says softly, brokenly. She squeezes her eyes shut so she won’t have to look at the slow burn of pity and disappointment in his eyes. “I can’t be strong. I thought I could be better, I thought I could but I can’t. No matter what I do, I always slip up and you always get hurt. When I mess up it’s you that bleeds because of it and I can’t fucking stand it!”
She takes a heaving breath, voice beginning to shake.
“I can’t fucking stand how weak I am! Even after everything, I’m still weak – I’m still weak and it’s always you that takes the fall for it! I can’t – I can’t handle it. I can’t handle the guilt because I know it’s my fault, it’s always my fault!”
There’s a beat of silence. His hands are warm and dry around hers, she can feel his breath on her fingers.
“Look at me.” he murmurs, voice low and steady. She does and his eyes bore into her, the smell of his skin making her shiver.
“You have to forget about that crap.” he says quietly. “I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to keep saying it, but I’m always ready to die for you.” his words are rough and insistent with his sincerity, “I’m always going to protect you, and I don’t give a shit what it takes. That’s what I’m supposed to do, that’s what we both do. We’re a team. Or have you forgotten that?”
“But…”
“No, let me finish.” he lets her hands slip from his grasp, takes a step closer. “We protect each other. That’s the idea, isn’t it? We’re partners, we’re on the same wavelength, we’re a team. You can’t be the strong one all the time. You can’t be the protector all the time, you have to let me do it too.”
She feels a hot prickle behind her eyes. There’s no pity in his face, no disappointment; only reverence and frustration.
“You have to trust me. You have to trust me to be as strong as you are, to be strong when you can’t.”
“I do trust you!” she snaps, “I trust you with my life, I always have! That’s not the problem!”
She wants to scream, to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.
“You’re the strong one, not me. You’ve always been the strong one.” She remembers the thick spray of his blood when Crona’s sword sliced into his chest, the weight of his head when he collapsed into her lap, having taken the Kishin’s attack instead of her.
“You’re so stupid.” he sighs, a whisper of a smirk touching his lips, his shoulders slumping as the anger bleeds out of him bit by bit. “Are you forgetting when you risked your soul just to save me from the black blood? When you destroyed the Kishin without anybody’s help, using your courage as a weapon? Hell, when you punched a Kishin in the fucking face?”
Her eyes are wide as they stare into his.
“Maka, you’re the strongest person I know.” One side of his mouth ticks up, a flash of white teeth as he grins playfully. “Even I’m scared of you, sometimes.”
Despite herself, a huff of laughter escapes Maka’s mouth at that, and he grins wider in response.
“So don’t give me any more of that shit, because I’ll always be there to take a hit for you, and there ain’t a thing you can do about it.” he sighs, smiles smoothly at her, runs a hand through his hair. “But that doesn’t mean you’re weak, or that you’re useless. I’m always prepared to die for my meister.”
He pauses, before chuckling and reaching up to flick one of her ponytails.
“Especially when my meister is the coolest ever.”
And then, Maka smiles - body deflating in relief and resignation, cheeks too warm. She doesn’t expect the tears to come but they spring into her eyes anyway, blurring Soul’s face in front of her, rolling hot down her cheeks as her shoulders shake with equal parts laughter and uncontrollable sobs.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake. Come here.” He breathes out, grabbing her arm suddenly and pulling her into him, her face pressed into his collarbone as he wraps his arms around her shoulders, rests his chin on top of her head.
The scent of copper and cinnamon, of burnt rubber and motor oil fills her sinuses. The fabric of his shirt smells of sweat, of his spicy aftershave. Her eyes slip closed and her arms come up to grip the back of his jacket. It’s warm, and safe, and when she feels the deep rumble of his laughter against her cheek, it feels like home.
“Thank you.”
--
It happens on a summer evening, when the moon is high in the sky yet the air is still warm and slightly sticky.
They’re walking back home, still sweaty from the basketball game, from trying to keep up with Black Star and his relentless dribbling skills. The evening air cools their skin and they share a water bottle between them.
Maka takes a moment to turn her head upwards, gazing towards the navy ink of a sky studded with white stars and a yellow moon that grins and grins. She thinks wonderingly about all the souls under that moon, about the soul walking next to her, the soul so perfectly aligned with hers. Her boy with the white hair and red eyes, her weapon with a sharp blade and a sharper grin. When she closes her eyes, she can smell the sweat from his skin, almost feel the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart. She senses his soul wavelength. It’s bright and warm, like the sun on her back during a summer day, and it thrums with quiet power and strength.
It touches her soul like fingertips on her neck, makes her feel light and gleeful. She sighs. A cool breeze hits her face, blows her loosened hair across her face before she tucks it behind her ear, moving against her nape.
She hears the scuff of feet moving towards her, and suddenly two warm palms are against her jaw, tipping her face upwards. Before she has time to think, to even open her eyes, she feels the flutter of eyelashes against her face, the press of slightly-damp lips against hers. Her heart swells in her chest and she realises she’s being kissed. She realises she’s being kissed by Soul.
The smell of him is strong from here. Tangy sweat, burnt rubber and cinnamon, his skin hot against hers. Opening her eyes in shock, she sees only the smudge of his eyelashes against his face, his cheekbone, spiky white hair. His fingertips are like constellations against the skin of her face.
He pulls away, too soon, and she finds she is panting. His hands are still on her face, his red eyes wide with shock and cheeks crimson even in the dusk.
“I meant it.” he says, too loud in the small space between them.
Her mind feels sluggish, her heart fluttering in her throat.
“Meant what?” she asks, feeling slightly dizzy now, the world seeming to slow around her.
“I’m in love with you.” he says, sounding breathless and desperate, “I’m sure of it.”
Her mouth parts in shock.
“What?” she says stupidly.
He growls in frustration, throws his hands up and away from her face, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. His face still glows a deep red in the evening light, she imagines it feels hot to the touch.
“Goddammit, I’m in love with you!” he all but yells, almost an accusation that rings in her ears. His shoulders hunch up, his fists clench. “When you drink your tea with too much milk in it, when you fall asleep reading books on the couch - when you draw smiley faces on the mirror after you take a shower and that smug grin you have on your face after you win a fight - even when you yell at me for no reason! I’m fucking in love with you!”
He draws his hands away from his face and his eyes are wild with trepidation and anxiety, with the unbearable lightness of unloading lead-weighted confessions.
“Every time you smile at me with those, those eyes – even though I don’t deserve you, even though you’re stronger than anyone I know put together and you don’t need me, you don’t need anyone. I love you so goddamn much I don’t even know what to do anymore.”
His voice wavers and breaks at the end, and the street is left in a heavy silence. They stare at each other, Soul’s chest moving up and down with heaving breaths, his eyes dark with something close to fear. Her mouth still tingles from the press of his. She reaches up, touches her thumb to her bottom lip.
And then, she starts to giggle. Soul’s face crumples in despair and his eyes flash with anger.
“What the hell, Maka?” he snaps, “I tell you all that shit, and then you go and fucking laugh at-“
She reaches forward, grabs him by the collar of his jacket, pulling him close until his chin almost bumps into her nose and she hears him gasp. She presses her forehead to his cheek, closes her eyes.
"I love you too, you absolute idiot.” she murmurs, her blood running a bit faster at saying it out loud, a smile still playing across her lips. She hears his breath hitch. “I have said it before; you just didn’t hear me. You were too busy being unconscious.”
He blinks down at her, face almost glowing in the dusk.
One hand reaches down, she threads her fingers between his. “I meant it then, too.”
She looks up, feels his soul press against hers when their eyes connect.
“And I do need you. I always have. I always will.”
She leans up, tugs at his collar, waits until he turns his face downward before pressing her mouth against his once again. He breathes harshly through his nose, hands coming up to grasp gently at her shoulders. His mouth is warm and slightly wet and when it opens under hers she feels her heart leap into her throat, for once actually sympathising with the starry-eyed, one-dimensional heroines in those silly romance novels. She kisses him and kisses him until she feels his mouth tighten under hers in a smirk, one side higher than the other, and it’s beautiful.
“You’re dangerous, Maka Albarn.” Soul says when he pulls away, eyes shining and kiss-reddened mouth pulled up into a grin.
“You taste like stale coffee, it’s gross.” she retorts, grinning back. His mouth falls open in mock horror and she can’t stop herself from rocking up on her tiptoes, kissing him again in a dark street with the summer night breeze blowing her hair into knots, the smell of sweat and cinnamon mingling in the air.
--
He makes apple cake, she leaves books on the kitchen table and they both forget to do the washing-up. He still smells of cinnamon, of burnt rubber and motor oil, but this time she’s allowed to press her face to his neck and breathe him in, to wear his shirts to school. His fingers move against her skin while she sleeps, tapping out silent piano melodies. She sometimes wonders if it’s the same song he played when they first met.
They still try and die for each other, but they get stronger for each other too. It doesn’t hurt to look at him anymore, not when Maka can do it freely, when he looks up and smiles cheekily when he catches her eye, when he pushes the hair back from her forehead to kiss her there. They wipe dried blood from each other’s faces, buy fresh bandages far too often and laugh until their guts ache. They hold hands a lot.
--
Soul’s making dinner and she sits in the kitchen with a book, tongue poking out from between her teeth. He looks over, smirks at the sight, lifts a drop of sauce onto his finger and dabs it on the tip of her tongue, chuckling when she startles at the contact.
“Could use more salt.” she says moodily in response, sinking lower in the chair and refusing to look at him.
Her bottom lip juts out and he wants to kiss it, so he walks over and does just that, smiling when her book hits the kitchen table and she kisses back. She kisses like she fights, using her instincts, with strength and confidence. She has a tendency to bite unpredictably and Soul has to battle for control. It’s the most fun he’s ever had kissing someone.
“Food’s gonna burn.” she says against his mouth, tongue touching his bottom lip.
“Mmph.” he replies, sliding a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. He pushes himself away reluctantly, stirring the sauce and feeling Maka’s eyes on his back.
Later, he lies on the couch with his belly full and eyes heavy, arms folded underneath his head. He watches the silhouette of Maka slip into the darkened room before she drops her entire weight onto him, pillowing her head on his chest, tangling her legs with his.
“Oomph, have you put on weight?”
She smacks him in the forehead and he giggles, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Her fringe tickles his neck, smells of fresh bread and springtime. He can feel her heartbeat as if it thumped inside of his own chest.
“You’re a jerk.” she says, wriggling around above him to make him squirm in form of revenge.
He grabs her hips, grins at the pout painted across her mouth.
“Ah, but you love me.” he retorts, pulling her up until their noses bump and he feels the warmth of her breath on his face.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” she groans, but leans forward to smear their mouths together anyway, hands pushing the hair back from Soul’s face and legs moving to straddle his hips.
Maka has saved him from demons, from madness, even from death. She’s made him stronger, made him braver, given him something to fight for. She smiles at him and tells him that she loves him. She likes it when he plays for her. She throws books at him, kisses him until he sees stars and his skin goes warm all over.
She makes him feel like he’s worth something.
Deep down, he knows that he may not deserve her - as a weapon partner, as a friend, as anything - but he wants to deserve her and he thinks maybe that’s enough. She’s stronger than him, more brilliant than anyone he’s ever met, but when she looks at him with danger in her eyes and a smirk on her lips he knows his inferiorities don’t matter. When her body curls around his in the night, when she reaches for him in her sleep, it’s more than enough.
She giggles in his ear, slips her tongue into his mouth and tugs at his hair. He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of her skin, lets her mouth move against his and her hair brush against his cheeks, trying to pull her closer. Their noses align, their breaths come fast and damp in the small space between them.
He likes the way she presses her forehead to his chest, the way their fingers fit together. He likes it when she lets her hair dry naturally and curls form at her temples. He likes the curve of her smile, the power in her thighs, the slope of her stomach. He loves her bravery, her kindness, her intelligence and her beautiful soul.
He knows that no matter what happens from now on, he will be by Maka’s side – as her weapon, her partner, her soulmate. He will bleed for her, and she will bleed for him, and they’ll make others bleed too. They’ll take turns cooking, she will shout at him and he’ll shout back; they’ll have food fights in the kitchen and fall asleep in class. She’ll kiss him until he’s dizzy and he’ll hug her to his chest while he sleeps.
They’ll face whatever the world has in store for them, hand-in-hand.
And it’ll be fucking amazing.