dedication: to pockyphoto on LJ. Happy Christmas!
notes: this pairing. My heart. Stop.
notes2: my headcanon!Soul swears a lot.
title: you could be my ever after
summary: And I've been taking you for granted. — Soul/Maka.
He stood outside her little house in the cold. It was late December, almost Christmas, and Soul had no fucking clue why he was standing out there like some chicken-shit five-year-old—he was twenty, and he really ought to have been past this kind of fear.
He raised his fist, and knocked.
"Coming!" was muffled through the wood but even that had Soul wincing because it was light and happy and Maka and not—
The door opened, and for a minute, Maka looked like herself, all green eyes and ash-blonde pigtails, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the cold, a book under her arm. She looked like she'd just been sitting in front of the fireplace, reading 'til she was fuzzy-eyed. It had always been one of her favourite pass-times. He knew that because once, they'd been—good.
Together, that is.
Then he watched her eyes go dark. Then he watched her shut off.
His was voice was strangled and he choked on his own breath. "Uh."
(So cool, Evans. Jesus, what are you doing?)
"Oh," she said. "Hi."
"Can I, uh, come in? I just—came to get my things."
Maka turned her face away. "Fine."
Soul felt seven inches tall.
She moved out of the doorway, and motioned for him to enter. "Close the door behind you. Your stuff—"
Maka pointed at an open cardboard box. "I took the liberty of packing it up. It's all there. I promise."
Soul grinned a sharp-toothed grin.
It was out of place between them, something left over from a time when being together was an everyday thing; from when they were teenagers and not—not adults. Maka looked away again.
Soul slouched his way to the box. It wasn't a very big box, but then, he'd been slowly moving his stuff out of her place for months on end. It'd felt like if he could elongate it, it wouldn't hurt so much. It'd felt like he could put it off, it wasn't real.
(It couldn't be real.)
He hefted the box up and as he turned, he caught sight of the photographs on the mantle. There were four, but only three left up—one of Maka and her mother, another of Maka and Kid with the twins in the background flailing, and the third of Maka and Tsubaki posing for the camera.
Soul knew what that last photograph was.
It'd been summer; they'd been eighteen and falling fast and hard (they'd always been falling fast and hard) and Maka had been furious and screeching because he'd interrupted her study time and he'd been smirking down at her and it had been—golden. They'd been golden.
Sometimes, he really hated himself.
Soul set the box down, slow and methodic.
"This is just temporary," he said to the wall.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"I'll just leave this shit here. I'm coming back, anyway. I'll even pretend to sleep."
Soul listened to the tiny giggle that escaped her.
It felt like taking flight.
The night suddenly didn't feel so cold.