2008

.

There is something special about waking up to him.

Early-morning light filters in through the sheer curtains as she rolls onto her side, and he's almost glowing there on the hotel carpet, tucked beneath a thin blanket, socked feet poking out the bottom. He's tall, knees and toes peering out from beneath his covers, arms tucked beneath his head. And he's serene, nearly, face so lax and free of the stress of day, of last night, merely seven-or-so hours ago, when he'd come clean so bravely.

He'd had her drunk, in his bed, feeling emotional and vulnerable and he'd still taken the couch.

If the wedding wasn't lulling her, she might be a little angry at herself for such a flip-flop. A day ago, she'd been avoiding eye contact. A year ago - years ago, multiple years, even - she'd cursed his name, rued the day she ever let Soul Evans inside her heart.

But he's pretty. And he doesn't even snore, just blinks groggily up at her through the blinding beam of daylight, reaching lazily for the alarm clock, clambering to his knees.

There is something special about waking up to him. Even more than that, though, there's something special about the quiet, thoughtful way he smiles at her through sleepy eyes and intense bedhead. Something magical in the way her heart seems to spread wings and attempt to fly away.

.

"How's Blair?"

Maka leans forward and turns the volume up on the radio. It feels almost disgustingly nostalgic, and she's half tempted to kick her feet up on the dashboard, roll the windows down and sing along, but it's city driving at Early O'Clock and maybe, just maybe she shouldn't push their newfound calm too quickly. As it is, Soul's hands are delightfully unbothered as they hold the steering wheel, and she'd watched him down both a balanced breakfast and his meds, so pushing the envelope so soon would be silly.

But that doesn't mean she can't try to catch up. Ten years is a long time to hate someone. Even longer to go without petting his cute cat.

"Little brat had kittens," he says, scowling, but can't keep the laugh out of his voice as Maka gasps and covers her mouth. "I swear she's some sort of escape artist. No matter what I do she finds a way to get out. My neighbors are probably going to start complaining here pretty soon if I can't keep a handle on my damn cat."

A kitty on the move. Maka leans back into Soul's leather seats and sighs contently. "You kept her, then?"

He shouldn't take his eyes off the road, but he's always been bad about not looking at her. She catches him sneaking a peek, red eyes bright beneath his snowy lashes, and though there's heat flooding her face, she slaps his shoulder and scolds him. It's routine, keeping him in line, playfully nagging him, and his resulting grunt and grouching pout is the same. They are Soul and Maka again, teasing and complaining, eye-rolling and head-shaking, and it's comforting, somehow. Eases her into a refreshing sense of calm, and even Rihanna's breakup ballad blasting through Soul's stereo can't harsh her vibe.

Take a bow, take a bow.

Cathartic. That's the word she's looking for. Closure to a decade-old heartache. A well-needed cauterization to her wound, and somehow, she'd even reemerged with a friend of sorts. Because they're friendly now, right? This is what they are doing, ribbing one another good-naturedly? Soul, driving her back to her apartment to grab her things before they both beeline to the wedding, before Liz has both of their heads on a silver platter.

"I thought you didn't want a pet?" she asks then, cheekily. Maka feels inspired by the way, even now, he keeps glancing over at her, as if he can't believe she's actually here, in the passenger seat of his car. It fills her with an euphoric, fulfilling sort of victory.

Soul presses his lips together, flicks on his blinker and turns into her driveway. "Never said that."

"You definitely implied it, you weenie."

"Weenie," he repeats incredulously, brows raised.

Her pink cheeks are certainly not victim of his expression. Because Maka Albarn certainly does not sit and reminisce on the only other time she's ever seen her ex boyfriend's expression so lax, never, never- but he'd been so hot, beneath her palms, throbbing in her mouth-

"You know what I mean!" she shrieks, shaking her head. Where did that even come from?

He shakes his head and puts the car into park. "You pry too much."

"Soul, come on."

Sighing, he turns to face her, and she's reminded of that night in her childhood driveway, Mama lingering in the doorway, the porch light the only spotlight Soul's ever felt comfortable performing under. "She was important to you, Maka. 'Course I kept her. Besides, it was uh, kind of lonely, you know, without you around, and-"

Freight train Albarn, even in the face of such chilling revelations. "You kept her because of me?"

Nervous Soul is back. He's still a little bit camera shy, and nibbles his lip in that distracting way of his as he contemplates her question. His hands drum on the steering wheel, eyes rising to the car roof, and then he blurts, "She reminded me of you," as if it isn't absolutely the saddest thing she's ever heard. Before she even has the time to process that little confession, he's glancing at her, bottom lip rosy beneath the points of his teeth, and she might as well be naked.

She should not be turned on right now. She hasn't felt like this because of another living, breathing person in years, and he just- a bite of his lip, really? That's what does it for her? Here she'd been, feeling sorry, almost a little bit unreasonably angry, and then latent arousal?

Maka kicks the car door open. Whether it's a blatant escape or a need for a breath of fresh air is undetermined.

.

Needless to say, the attraction catches her off guard.

At seventeen, she had never truly understood what Liz had meant when she said Soul hadn't felt it with her, that he wasn't really into boys or girls, because, what? As a teenager, she'd been so blissfully unaware of things like sexuality and attraction, so caught up, annoyingly, in fluttery, distracting feelings for her neighbor to notice her own blatant disinterest in anyone else, either. She blames her upbringing, sometimes, mostly her papa, who so normalized being attracted to anything breathing in a short skirt. More than anything else, though, she blames television, media, the boyband craze, a young Britbrit in crop tops dropping jaws.

It wasn't until he was gone that she realized the two of them were one in the same. Because very suddenly, it was clear that she wasn't really into boys or girls, either. When it was clear it wasn't just her love-lost heart, aching for someone she couldn't have or trust, that it was just she didn't feel it, either, well- there had been years of denial that followed, angry years where she'd tried her hardest to feel something, too, just out of spite. Kissing a pretty-eyed boy in the back of a college party, uncomfortably, awkwardly. Holding hands with Anya Hepburn her Sophomore year, bored, indifferent and feeling terrible for it.

Maka swallows the misplaced attraction and watches Eruka part Liz's long, golden hair. It's not fair, she thinks, to be so blindsided by it, after so long. She'd still felt latent romantic feelings for him, of course, through the years - lingering, eerie, in that sad, lonely sort of way she'd worked hard to burn away.

But the tight coil of heat, sinking low in her gut, still, even hours after she's practically salivated over a bitten lip, of all things! Now, because they'd talked? Because, because- she is still angry, certainly, obviously, just no longer in the overwhelming, going-to-clock-him-between-the-eyes sort of way. More in the bitter, displeased sort of way, churning in her chest, a sour sort of aftertaste that keeps warring with the devastating reminder that she'd wanted to kiss him.

More than just kiss him, she thinks, dejected. Who knew all it took to relight her fire was one late-night heart-to-heart. She'd fallen asleep to the sound of his voice, for goodness sake, with one hand flung over, outstretched, reaching for him.

And he hadn't touched her. Even in the morning, he'd let her take the first shower, looking delightfully ruffled by sleep, shoulders broad in the worn-cotton of his sleep shirt. Soul had minded his distance so well - almost too well - and it only makes the burn sink deeper. Go on and take a bow, because she is officially hopeless, a starry-eyed teenager again, only this time she's better prepared to deal with the real world.

So an adult. An adult who can't seem to stop thinking about her ex-boyfriend's mouth.

"Wake up, sleepsalot," Liz says, jolting her out of her reverie. "You look like a zombie. Concealer is your friend, lady."

"Sorry," Maka says mindlessly.

She shrugs, then flinches, dropping her hand; perhaps nervous nail-biting is not the best idea for a bride-to-be. "Eh, don't apologize to me, long as you spill the beans."

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you leave with my good friend Soul. You know, the guy you were pissed at me for inviting." Her grin has the hair on the back of Maka's neck standing up, and she splutters for a moment, grappling for a sense of control. "Care to share?"

"I-" she flails for a moment, madly, tugging on the ends of her hair; there's no way to swerve effectively and blame her rosy cheeks on a heavy-handed application of rouge while she's still barefaced, freckles and all. "He drove me back! I'd been drinking-"

"Oh, I know you'd been drinking. Which brings me to my next question," Liz says, leaning forward, and Eruka scowls behind her, still attempting, valiantly, to do something with Liz's curtain of blonde hair. "Did he behave himself?"

Talk about mixed signals.

Combing her fingers through her hair instead, Maka shifts her weight, kitten-heel to kitten-heel, debating on which direction to take this. On the one hand, she could deny, because nothing had truthfully happend worth spilling - other than Soul finally telling her his whole truth, but something tells her that's not what put that eager spark in Liz's eyes. Surely she wants the dirty details, retellings of Soul ravishing her, or Maka ravishing him, but- not, because she'd been drinking?

Maka stares. Liz doesn't back down. "... We talked."

"And Soul kept his hands to himself?"

"I'm not his girlfriend, Liz."

At that, she snorts. "You're not naive enough to think people don't hook up outside of relationships, Albarn. C'mon. As much as I want to know what went down - and trust me, everybody wants to know the end of this decade-long soap opera - if he put the moves on you while you were too drunk to tell up from down, I'd have to kick his ass. Wedding gown or otherwise."

Entirely unsure if she's comforted by such a promise, Maka instead focuses on the most offensive (and embarrassing) part of Liz's statement. "My life is not a soap opera," she insists, indignantly, pressing her lips together. "I was-"

"Heartbroken," Liz finishes, expression sobering. "Yeah. I know."

What a heavy, loaded stare. Elizabeth Thompson might be a five-foot-seven bundle of tenacity and blonde-haired, traffic-stopping beauty, but her eyes are like steel. There's a hardness there, wise beyond her twenty-eight years, deeper than flippant disregard for previous boundaries would assumptively allow. Aged, weary, honest, and sometimes Maka wonders if Tsubaki tastes gunpowder when she kisses her, because that girl is a weapon, surely. Such hard edges in her eyes tell stories, and it's always been a little unnerving, even for iron-willed Maka.

So Maka swallows and tries to grow up a little. Tries to face it without losing her nerve, without backing away and scoffing about word choice or something along those lines. She is not twenty-seven going on seventeen, not anymore.

"We talked," Maka says again.

"I sure hope you did."

There's probably nothing she could tell Liz that she doesn't already know. Maka's the college graduate here, but perhaps there are some things textbooks can't teach. "I'm still upset with him."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Liz sighs, melting back into her seat, finally. The street-hardened warrior has donned her hood, again, and instead Maka's faced with an anxious bride-to-be, scratching her cheek and staring pointedly at the ceiling. Blue-gray steel is still steel all the same, though, and maybe even through time, some things will just always stay the same.

She's distracted again. Brain floating somewhere in the stratosphere, overthinking, per usual, putting too much mind-power into contemplating why now, exactly, the lens-flare of attraction has chosen to blindside her.

"Maka."

That is her name, isn't it? Some things stay the same. She is Maka, headstrong bookworm, workaholic, aspiring people-pleaser, still stupid in love with a sleepy-eyed boy with music written in his very soul. It seems no amount of age will loosen that tether. She doesn't feel it with anyone, just Soul and his morning-dawn eyes, shy smiles and warm hands.

"I'm gonna check on Tsu," she says, finally blinking back that morning-after haze.

Liz winces as Eruka pins her hair back. "Kiss her good luck for me. She'll need it. Don't forget, though - you're next in line for punishment."

.

Blake is, predictably, shouting.

But it's almost cute, watching him fuss over his best friend like a mother hen. Whenever a flower strays from Tsubaki's careful updo he flails, shouting at Soul, his unfortunate right-hand man, to hit him up with the goods, there are operations to be done, loser. And Soul, for all of his eye-rolling and heavy sighing, plays the part dutifully, shooting the bride a half-smile every time she politely tries to wave her self-appointed hairdresser away.

"It's fine!" she insists, just as Maka nudges the door shut behind her. "Really, my hair is so thick, some are bound to fall out-"

"It's a look," Blake says, sounding scandalized. "D'you think we could, like, sticky-paste them in?"

"Your damage control says no," says Soul, as he carefully tucks pink petals behind her ear. It brings out the blushing eagerness of her cheeks, and rosy-faced Tsubaki is somehow even lovelier than ordinary Tsubaki- and there is nothing ordinary about ordinary Tsu. If Liz is startlingly beautiful, with her dark makeup and ear piercings and long legs, her wife-to-be is the slow-burn lovely, soft cheeks and long lashes and willowy limbs.

She glances up and they meet eyes. Tsubaki brightens, somehow, as if she weren't already a singular, twinkling star, and raises her grabby-hands in her direction. "Maka!"

Pretending not to be delighted by the look on Soul's face is such a difficult task. As it is, she can't keep herself from noticing, or taking inventory of the excited way he glances over, too, as if there's nowhere else for him to reach but her, his true north. His whole face lights up, and then he tries to tamp it down, as if embarrassed by the brightness of his eyes. Silly. Despite her best efforts, she cracks a little smile, too, and laughs through the sheer absurdity of it all.

Maybe he's been thinking about her, too. Maybe there's a friendship worth salvaging after all.

"Ew," Blake groans, waving a pin at them. "Take that outside. Gross. I could glue the flowers into Tsu's hair with the amount of gooey feelings wafting between the two of you."

Wafting. She balks, halted, still three-steps from the entrance/exit. "You're gross," she retorts, very maturely.

"You're eye-humping my pin slave," Blake says, then scowls at her for good measure. "Either come put him out of his deprived misery and settle the score once and for all or get out, pigtails. You're a distraction."

She hasn't worn pigtails since she was a teenager, but old habits die hard, and it's been her damn nickname for as long as she can remember. Belligerently, she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs at him. "I'm here to deliver a message to Tsubaki, thank you very much," Maka says, very seriously, and strides over to press a very light kiss on Tsubaki's forehead. "For good luck, from your future wife."

"She gets sugar and Soul doesn't?"

Maka will not blush. "Liz did not send kisses his way."

Tsubaki sighs happily, then pats Maka's hand. "Thank you. The dress looks lovely on you. I'm glad everything worked out in the end."

Almost. Her dress is hemmed, and she's not drowning in pink silk, despite the gaudy, oversized flower embellishment on the one strap, but there's still just one more thing that needs to be settled, and it's not her turn in the makeup chair.

Once and for all, she needs to clear the air, and when Soul glances at her, Maka nudges her head toward the door. And even after all of these years, they can still communicate so wordlessly - Maka reads his initial indecision over leaving Blake alone with the paramount task of not ruining Tsubaki's hair and raises her brows, then he goes as far as biting his lip before that hesitant bobbing of his throat irons out. Suddenly, he's ten thousand degrees, practically a sun, and the heated weight of her unasked question is mirrored in his laser-sharp stare.

"Bout time," Blake says, rolling his eyes. Tsubaki's mother takes Soul's place at her daughter's side as Maka slips out the door with her ex-boyfriend. Pink burns all to way to the very tips of his ears.

.

"So," he says, falling into step alongside her.

"So."

"You sleep alright?"

She is weightless. Like her heart has wings, fluttering about in her chest without restraint, and Maka could almost laugh from the sheer relief of it. To be so close to him, to feel his knuckles brush hers without getting caught between the urge to cry and the instinct to scream - it's just freeing, the sweetest closure, and if her mother would only call more than just on the major holidays, Maka thinks her teenage self would be immensely pleased. At seventeen, eighteen, everything had felt so important, imposing, immediate - she's sort of exhausted just thinking about it.

But she does not have time for small talk. Not while he's so near, not while she's unsure of where his future will lead him - and if, more importantly, somehow, if she's in it, too. If perhaps maybe there's a way to be in his life without building her own around it, and vise-versa.

"Mmm," she hums, then grabs the sleeve of his jacket and stops. He pauses, then turns to face her. "Soul, what're your plans?"

He offers a crooked grin. "We're doing this again, so soon?"

Her wings spread to full span, and she will never be flightless again. Not with the way he's looking at her. Not with the way she wants to press her hands to his face and kiss that annoyingly adorable dimple. "I thought we could be friends again, so, I mean- if this is going to be a long-distance sort of thing, I'd like to plan ahead."

Warm, soft fingers replace the smooth fabric of his sleeve. Ah. She blinks back her surprise and forces courage through every pore.

"You always were all business," he says, fondly. "Thought we were already friends."

Idiot. They need to discuss things, so that they don't simultaneously implode again. Miscommunication and doubt have destroyed them once, and she will be damned if she lets something this good slip through her fingers again. His hands are warmer than any ghost, and well, he's sort of cuter at twenty-eight than he'd been at eighteen anyway. Her boy's grown into himself, and that teasing lilt to his tone just begs to be smooched away.

Friends, though. Friends first. They must rebuild from the ground up.

"Are we friends?" she asks. "Because if that's what we are, I need to know. You need to be clear with me, or else I'm going to get the wrong idea, and-"

He squeezes her hand. "You, the wrong idea? Why, never."

"Soul."

His lips are softer than she remembers. Less chapped, perhaps, as they brush lightly over the curve of her knuckles in a reverent promise. Such gentleness from a mouth so capable of damage, from lips that guard such sharp, interesting teeth, and a smart, talented tongue. He presses a kiss to each finger, slow and steady, never once taking his eyes off of her, and weak-kneed doesn't even begin to cover it.

Steam could be coiling out of her ears and she wouldn't even be surprised. Soul Evans is almost stupidly pretty in the strangest ways, with hot, dark eyes and a certain dangerous, misguided appeal to him. Beneath all of that snarl and carefully-measured indifference is an honest heart, unbridled loyalty - and beneath that goddamned suit are his legs and ass and hips, dotted with freckles, and despite her best efforts, she can still remember how they'd felt pinned beneath her palms.

It's too much. Faintly, she hears the sound of a kettle whistling in the back of her head, and blurts, "Friends?" almost squeakily.

He raises his brows. "Is that what you want?"

"I want to be on the same page."

His thumb brushes along the back of her hand leisurely. Soul seems almost too pleased with the arrangement, perfectly happy stroking her like a cat, grinning as she purrs. "I want whatever you want, Maka."

Some things never change. It seems he'll never have the courage to come forth and ask for what he wants. "Friends, then," she says, then grasps the lapels of his jacket, because grown-up Soul in a suit is a dream she's only dared to envision in her loneliest nights, and tugs him down to her level.

Friends, then. Whatever that means for them.

Soul's hands on her waist are the only confirmation she needs that he's on her same wavelength, and Maka slips her tongue between his lips and satisfies about a thousand misplaced daydreams in a single, revolutionary moment. The world stops turning, just for a second, a breath-taking wave of her white flag, and then time ticks back into place and she's got her hands in his hair.

.

Like horny teenagers, they scamper their way into an empty room, taking breaks along the way to press one another against a wall, as if any moment spent where they're not touching is a moment wasted. It's hard to think clearly while Soul's teeth are on her neck, leaving long-overdue hickies all over, but somehow reason prevails, and Maka summons enough brain function to kick open a door, drag Soul in, and lock it behind her.

And they're opposing ends of a magnet. It's impossible to keep herself from touching him, from quite literally hiking her bridesmaid dress up to her hips and jumping, linking her ankles around his hips and swallowing his gasp of surprise.

"Mmmh," he muffles, stumbling back before stepping forward, pinning her to the wall. "Maka," he breathes then, grinding slowly into her.

Every waking nerve has been set ablaze, and if she doesn't feel him soon she might just cry. He leaves a trail of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, and she bucks her hips helplessly once he takes to sampling her collarbones, teeth and tongue and all.

Anyone else and she might find it gross. But he's Soul, and there's never been anyone else for her but him, and it's been ten years since she's had good sex, so sue her for being over-excitable. He certainly has no complaints when she pulls his hair and undulates against him, trying desperately to gain enough leverage to work herself against that hard interesting something beneath his trousers.

There should be a pretty word for it. There isn't. His dick. His cock. It all sounds so harsh and porny to her, and it shouldn't, because he's just Soul, and oooh- working against it is even better than she remembered. Through the thin lace of her panties, she can almost feel the shape of him, can almost get the right amount of pressure and friction, if she could just get him a little higher, maybe-

She can't finish a thought. Christ.

There is nothing but him, and his hands, clutching her hips so desperately she think she might bruise. Soul and his mouth, his wild, hand-tousled hair and his penis (not better, still not better, but a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet and she wants to ride him like a damn show pony, so whatever) and everything, his everything, and Maka cries out when one of those magic hands sinks down to bunch her dress up around her waist.

Each finger is delicate. He trails his way along the fair skin of her stomach, pale, virgin skin that has scarcely seen the light of day. Then, finally, he sinks lower, those long, talented digits slipping past the lace of her undergarments until he's right there, where's she's slick and hot and he melts within her.

"Fuck," he swears into her neck. She whimpers and leans her head back against the wall, hips still rolling, eagerly trying to work herself off on any part of him he'll offer. "Maybe we should slow down, or-"

Forget flowery words. She can't do it, not while her blood burns and her pulse throbs in time with her drumming heartbeat, and she feels it this time, the need to be with him, body and soul. "Please," she practically begs, and something in her tone seems to break him, because he relents and sinks another finger within, knuckle-deep, and it's so good, being with him. He's so good, even though he's still fully dressed and she's still trying to ride his fingers like it's her god-given job. Release is so close, and she's right there, trying to claw her way through the tide, trying to burst free and catch her breath. "Please, please, please, I don't care, I love you, we can compromise and figure something out, j-just-"

He drops her, just for a moment, and the world is meaningless pudding beneath her feet. Her jelly-legged confusion is short lived, because then her friend is dropping to his knees, slipping her damp panties down her legs and shooting her a completely predatory grin.

Soul's absurdly attractive framed by her thighs. Remaining vertical isn't so tough once he's shouldered his way between her legs, supporting her weight, and his mouth is as distractingly provocative as ever as he licks his lips. She feels bad for just a second, contemplating the difference in pleasure, as he services her, mouth rendering her stupid and boneless, but then he moans, too, despite having his face ridden. His lashes flicker, snow-white, soft like dandelion fuzz as he meets her eye, and something passes between them wordlessly.

Then Soul shuts his eyes and moans again. Really moans, deep in his chest, and the dig of his fingertips into her thigh is almost possessive, and fuck it, Maka melts, one palm mashed against the wall for support while the other wrecks havoc in his previously-styled hair. She doesn't like this gelled-back substitute anyway - some things stay the same, and Soul isn't the same without his bedhead and molten eyes.

She wants to say more, wants to clear the air, perhaps give a bit more attention to the fact that she'd just blurted her love for him, despite everything else, and his answer had been to drop to his knees and lick her real slow, but it's hard, putting any of her jumbled thoughts into words. She sighs instead, eyelids fluttering as Soul reads her so effortlessly, the only study she's ever seen him devote himself to fully. His tongue is warm on her clit, licking a slow, deliberate circle just shy of where she needs him, and she keens, whimpering, pleading, "Soul, please."

It's hard to be angry when he's playing tricks with his tongue. Smart, smart tongue, just a little too talented for its own good. She comes beneath it, curling into him, heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird, ready to take flight. Maka breaks, and slides down onto the floor with him, bonelessly, almost sluggish with pleasure as he grins at her, seated right in front of her.

Then he licks his lips, and she tackles him down.

"Whoa-!"

She is queen of the world. And he's the sweetest thing she's ever seen, ruffled hair and pink, damp lips and eyes that could melt kingdoms, watching from under her as she presses her palms to his chest. And even through the layers of his shirt and jacket she can still feel his heartbeat, a steady rhythm that's dictated his music for as long as she can remember. She hums a little tune, inspired, and Soul squeezes her hips and barks out a laugh.

Maka balks, pouting. "What?"

He's rock hard (giggle, squirm, blush) beneath her and he still smiles at her like she's framed by golden feathers, halo and all. "Are you singing Wonderwall?"

Had she? She can't even tell. She'd just taken his beat and tried to make magic, too, like he's done so many times. Her fingers work hard at freeing him of his shirt buttons, his chest blurring into vision as his shirt parts like the red sea. Oh. He'd certainly not had tattoos here as a teenager, hm.

"It's a cute song," she says defensively, tracing the shape of scythe blade.

He shivers beneath her touch. Bites his lip. Then stares at her, right at her, and she feels like the most desirable girl in the world, wrinkled dress and bare face and all. Small chest and slim hips. Like just Maka is more than enough for him.

"Sure," Soul says, with a raised brow, and Maka nearly tears the buttons off his shirt trying to get him naked. "Christ- you know," he starts, grinning again, all shark, "I'm starting to think wanting to talk was all an excuse to get me into your bed, Albarn."

But his hands aren't even safely on her hips anymore. They're on her bare knees, instead, sliding slow and warm up her thighs, slipping beneath the pink silk of her dress. He kneads for a moment, and she nudges forward, inspired by his gentle suggestions - yes, she'd like to work herself against the heat beneath his trousers, yes, wouldn't it be nice if her fingers worked with her and she could undo his zipper? He does look a little strained and uncomfortable. Ah, that's better. No time to shimmy them off his hips, she will just have to work with what she has. Work his boxers down, too, with a smart hand slipped beneath a waistband, and he's just as she remembered him, hot and heavy in her grip.

He might want to continue bantering, but the breath that slips through his teeth is tight, and that delightful quirk in his brow makes her want to see him through. "We're friends, Soul," she says cheekily, palming him greedily, running her thumb up and down the length of him.

Soul stutters out a breath. "We're- you're something else," he says, very seriously, and his voice is almost gritty. "Wanna be a little more than your friend," he admits then, panting, as she pumps him gradually, putty in her hands. "If- fffuuuck, Maka, if you'll- let me, I'd-"

"You'll date me?" she asks breathlessly, feeling weightless, flying high.

He leads her by her hips over his erection, and he rubs so delightfully between her folds that she can't do much more than groan with him. Such a forbidden, age-old dance, one they haven't practiced the steps to for years. One she hadn't found any interest in, but with him - well, dancing has always been a little easier with him. Falling into step with Soul is one-two-three, as long as she's willing to let him lead, for once; and with the way he's looking at her, well, she's already long gone.

You'll date me. What a thing to ask. They're being gross, hooking up at their friend's wedding, and she's asking him to be her damn boyfriend again.

Grown-up Soul rubs a thumb along her hipbone. "You sure you want that?"

Giving her an out. Admirable. But Maka Albarn doesn't sleep with just anybody, silly boy. Maka Albarn doesn't want to sleep with just anybody - only him, apparently, and if he's ready to own up and work for it, too, she's willing to give it a try. Her answer is a wordless one, pivoting and sinking down upon him, burying him within her, and it's not invasive at all. It's sharing. Part of her for part of him.

Of course she wants that. He's her best friend, after all, and Maka's never been able to imagine herself with anyone else.

.

The wedding is sweet, despite everything.

Maka cries, walking down the aisle, lead by Masamune. He doesn't really say anything to her - and she doesn't really expect him to - just walks, stoically, tall and imposing, long hair tied up behind him. There's nobody at the altar yet, just decorations, a heart-shaped lattice, flowers pinned up with ivy and greens, and it's lovely, comforting. Despite everything else, despite all of the shenanigans and drama getting here, it's beautiful, and Blake shoots her a victorious grin from the side, winking cheekily.

She takes her place by Patty, fiddling nervously with her own set of flowers. There will always be a part of her unnerved by weddings, she supposes, memories of her parents shouting and slammed doors haunting the rose petals that line the aisle. And she cries more, thinking about it, her mama with a new family and her cheating papa, alone, sometimes visiting, smelling of cigarettes and cologne, always with a smile for her.

She cries more, as Liz and Tsubaki walk down the aisle, holding hands, blushing and eager. Laughs, even, as the tears stream down her face and she hiccups, when Liz trips over her heels and Tsubaki catches her. They're happy, smiling at each other, hand-in-hand, and Maka thinks there might be some merits to getting married after all, like maybe happily-ever-after could exist, if they try hard enough. If they really work at it.

From aside, Kid mutters, "What a beautiful wedding."

She's inclined to agree, but before she can say anything about it, Patty's nudging him and giggling, humming along to a tune Maka can almost place. He sours, only for a moment, before sighing and nudging her back, shaking his head, tiny smile in place all the same.

They're family, the lot of them. Liz, smiling from ear to ear, waving her bouquet at her little sister - Tsubaki, giggling at a blubbering Blake, smiling pretty for her cousin's flash photography. Marriage is only bringing them closer together, and none of it feels like a death march. There are no ghosts following in the brides' footsteps, no slammed doors or gurgling baby girls on their hips.

There's just love. A lot of love, and smiles, and held hands, and- and Soul, sitting in the front row, eyes warm, collar ruffled. And he's family, too. Liz's, Tsubaki's, maybe even hers.

She's not so scared anymore. The future's not so bad, not while she's got friends to support her, not while she's got giddy, blushing role models exchanging vows. Someday, maybe there'll be a ring on her finger, too. Someday, maybe there'll be a ring on his, and they'll be together, kissing one another at the alter, promising forever, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both shall live.

Maka catches his eye and he winks.

Or maybe not. And that's okay, too. Whatever happens happens, she thinks, and if he's along for the ride, anything is possible. They'll figure it out.

Together.