A/N: After more than a year of letting this story sit around in my files, I finally decided to keep its original ending. If you've read it in the GW forum, it's not that different, but I did fix things here and there. Enjoy the humour!
Memories may resurface but never as vividly as their original occurrence, and in the course of the seven weeks that have passed since the last shutting click of that mahogany door, Maka Albarn starts to doubt whether the Penthouse Demon really existed. Indeed she clearly remembers his touch along with the images of his slick toned body riding hers at their most intimate, but without him in physical proximity, he remains a fragment that her mind stubbornly refuses to let die.
It is for this very reason that she has been frequenting the local jazz club, the one that he had once taken her to, and tonight, she sits at the bar with a drink to nurse her longing. She has visited this place almost every night for the past week, but she usually chose a secluded corner where she could indulge in her book because Maka had the strange knack of being able to read anywhere, even in this smoky and aurally-distracting environment.
But despite the change of her seating location, her intentions remain the same since she has no drive to interact with strangers. Her sole purpose was to ease her longing for Soul, and the jazzy atmosphere was like breathing in wafts of his scent.
She takes a sip of her drink, and as the mixture of fizzy soda and sharp liquor rush down her deprived throat, she recalls the feeling of his rough fingertips grazing across the expanse of her neck, trailing down to cup an excited breast, his eager lips leaning in to crash into hers. At that memory, her drink disappears in one gulp; her hand shoots up to flag the bartender for another.
One should not live with regret and she usually abides to such a motto, but she can't help but wonder if things would have turned for the better had she acted differently during their last night together. Maybe she was too soft that night, being more intimate instead of purely physical because he had certainly responded with the former, caressing her skin with utmost care, kissing her like he actually meant it, and maybe he did, she would never know. She also doesn't understand where the intoxicating contents of her glass could have possibly vanished, but she certainly knows how to get them replenished as she waves down the bartender for the next round.
She admits that Soul's first impression hadn't been the best, and that first week of intense massages was absolutely horrible, but it inadvertently led to their jazz night out that had changed everything. Memories of his second week flash before her mind, and she not only watches her sprawled legs fondled by his sinful hands, but she also recalls their silly banters, the comfortable silence, that deep voice rumbling into her ear, reminding her just how nice it could be to have someone always by her side, to have a partner. And then somehow, her glass is empty—how did that happen, she has no idea— so the bartender graces her once more like a faithful servant.
Being hung up over a fling was entirely unacceptable and certainly a waste of time for the studious maniac, so she had purposely refused to collect his contact information, nor had she divulged her own just in case it would lead to false hope. Moreover, saying goodbye could have meddled with her resolve since emotions had a funny way of changing her mind, and even though she had actually slept by his side on the night before his departure, she had left early in the morning, clicking the door shut for the last time without saying farewell. She left him alone, the way it should be. Fuck, she needs another drink.
Her glass seems to have shrunk, or maybe she had just ordered something different. Regardless, she shoots the contents down her throat and the burning liquid races into her body like a breath of fresh air. She demands for another, and the faithful servant cannot deny a lady's orders, so he lets her shoot until she can't take any more.
What the fuck is she even doing, and where the fuck is she? She doesn't know and her mind is swimming with memories, questions, and unwanted emotions. Yet among the mental chaos, she still registers the low chatter of the club as the next performer steps up on stage. The cool notes of the piano then fill the room, tugging at her heartstrings even in her extreme state of intoxication.
Tears start to form, but she refuses to cry. She doesn't even need to turn around to see that it's not him because she can already tell by the sound of that light-hearted melody. Soul would never play like that; it just didn't match his personality. She doesn't know why she is torturing herself by willingly sitting through these reminders of his existence, and her threshold for pain has officially reached its limit. She stands up to finally take her leave.
Strangers throw her wary glances since she is a single female getting wasted on a weekday night, but they luckily mind their own business and let her stumble out the door without making any inappropriate advances. She doesn't bother hailing a cab because the walk would help sober off a little bit of the alcohol, and she enjoys the cool air that calms her nerves.
The darkness feels strangely comforting. It envelops her in a velvety black blanket with only the pinpricks of light in the sky offering her company. Her thoughts are still filled with images of him, but they slowly drift away as the night swallows up her vision, replacing her mind with only blank nothingness. The feeling is empty, yet strangely welcoming since it would at least help numb her extreme longing.
But what awaits her on her doorstep jolts her back to the unsettling feeling of life, filling the void with a rush of emotions that further stagger her gait as she approaches the source.
"Fuckin' hell, woman. It's 3AM on a Tuesday night. Where da hell have you been!?" The gruff voice rings into her ears, and she wonders if she accidentally drank absinthe in her binge. Or maybe the hour-long walk rendered her insane instead of sober.
"Oi Maka, are you okay?" His hand reaches out to cup the burning cheek of her paralyzed face. "Shit, what's wrong?"
She must be dreaming. At first, she thought that she was hallucinating, but then she remembered that absinthe was only rumoured to have such an effect, and it's not like she had actually drank such a vile substance tonight. Regardless of her dose of intoxication, the power of imagination can surely compete because the figure before her is as vivid as reality. Her cold fingers meet the backside of his hand that gently cradles her face, and despite the tangible warmth that spreads into her flesh, she is still convinced that he is a figment of her crazy mind.
"Just one last time, and I'll be able to move on," she whispers pleadingly, closing her eyes to cut off one of her senses, further accentuating the feeling of his touch. "I'm sorry for leaving you like that."
Before he can reassure her with words of comfort, his lips are met with her chaste kiss. She pecks him tentatively a few times, cracking open an eye to peek at his reaction, and when he responds with a signature smirk that also tickles the corner of her mouth, she then presses more deeply to savour every piece of his sinful texture.
Everything about Soul Evans was pure sin. From the hands that stroke into her lank ash blonde hair, to the tongue that devilishly slips past the barrier of her pink lips, he represented a desire so dangerous and god-forsakenly tempting that she could not muster the willpower to deny those dextrous fingers that now coil around her nape. She nevertheless manages to keep their embrace tame, still passionate but surprisingly controlled, perhaps due to her depleting energy that slows down her every movement, eventually rendering her completely limp when the fuel runs out.
Whether this was a dream or a lapse in her sanity, she concedes to the fact that it will be their last, and before her mind finally blanks out, she thanks the Demon God for gracing her with this fantasy.
In a perfect world, he would have made a cool entrance. Surprising her either at the hotel during her shift or at her doorstep in case she wasn't working, he wanted to see her big round eyes widening in shock as he casually approaches her, ammo of snarky comments fully loaded and ready to turn her into a gaping embarrassed mush. But unfortunately, the world was far from perfect, so he instead had to anxiously wait like some freaky stalker lurking around her apartment, sitting on the hard dirty floor for nearly five hours, only to have her finally arrive… drunk.
Their moment of passion dies down when she passes out in his arms, and despite the unpleasant taste of booze that now lingers in his mouth, he greatly appreciates every detail of this turn of events because it could have been much worse. In hindsight, he had made a very impulsive move, flying back to Death City without any plans or guarantees that Maka would want to see him again. He was also extremely lucky to stumble upon the right hotel staff member who didn't ask any questions and readily gave him Maka's address. He suspected that she must have been a friend because she sent him shy curious glances as if she knew something that she wasn't supposed to know.
He is still unsure of the explanation that he needs to give her, but he hopes that their kiss meant that she wanted him in her life again. He didn't want to appear desperate and it's not like he returned to DC only for her—okay, maybe she was a major influence on his decision, but there were other incentives such as their thriving jazz scene that he wanted to explore and take part of.
It would have been perverted of him to lie next to her on the bed that he places her on, so he decides to keep his distance by camping out in her living room. After all, he clearly remembers what she can be like when awakened next to an unexpected male and he chuckles at the now-fond memory.
The soft plush surface of the couch feels like a blessing to his poor ass. It annoys him that after all the wait, he is still left with the unfinished business of his return speech, but now that his legs can relax on the comfortable seat that nearly feels like a massage to his aching muscles, the fatigue settles into his system and his lazy eyes droop further until they're fully shut. He lets the arms of slumber rock him into the lovely world of dreams.
Her hand reaches out to swat the buzzing noise and she is surprised to see that the source is not her alarm clock. The cellphone vibrates once more, notifying the arrival of another text message, so she decides to check it despite her still-drowsy state of mind.
'How was last night?'
That's strange. She doesn't remember telling Tsubaki that she went out to the jazz club last night, so why was she asking such a question? But before composing a confused reply, she reads the next message that her friend sent right after.
'Sorry! My last message may have sounded a little perverted. o.0 I meant to say, how was the reunion? I hope he didn't give you a scare.'
Reunion? What the hell was she talking about? Her head can't process anything cryptic before she clears it with a nice hot shower, so she shuffles out of bed and heads straight for the bathroom. But when she opens her bedroom door, the answer to her question comes crashing down in the form of a certain white-haired man sprawled on her living room couch.
Her first instinct is to scream, but her throat is so dry that no sound escapes from her mouth. Her second reaction is to smack him awake and demand what was going on. And yet somehow, she chooses option three: gaping like an idiot because she still doesn't quite believe that it's actually him.
It doesn't help that she is terribly distracted by the way he is passed out, and the sun shining from her large window does weird halo-like effects to his now radiating presence. His head that hangs to the side leaves copious amounts of neck to bite, and his pants ride lower than usual, while his shirt is slightly pulled up, presumably from his hand scratching his stomach in the night.
Her legs move on their own and she finds herself already by his side, inspecting him as if he was a rare item that fell from the sky. Just a poke, she tells herself. She needs to confirm that he is real because she can't trust her mere eyes. Her nervous finger nudges into the flesh of his stomach, feeling the hard surface of his abs, and she continues to trace around the grooves, savouring the texture of his skin that was once only a memory.
What about his taste, she wonders. Deep down, she knows that her actions are shameful, but the lust overtakes her spirit like a starving child confronted with a hot meal, so her tongue dives in for a quick lick. He tastes like sweet nostalgia, and she can neither stop the emotions flowing into tears nor the lips that trail kisses around his navel, edging ever dangerously to the barrier of boxers that her busy fingers tug down until she is confronted with it.
He is flaccid, of course he is, since he is still dead to the external world and a hard-on is probably the last priority on his mind. She realises that it is the first time seeing his member so limp and harmless…pitiful, even. She should probably cover up his sad state with his pants, but she can't seem to ignore it after bearing witness, much like the way she always felt compelled to help a person in need, to give them a hand.
Her fingers wrap around the unimpressive appendage, pumping it gently to see if there would be any immediate effects. But it is only when her tongue offers aid that it begins to swell, growing in length and strength. She treats the activity like a training session where she won't be judged by her performance; he was asleep after all, so she took advantage of the situation to buff up her skills.
Meanwhile, Soul is having the best wet dream of the century. He thinks about all the good stuff in life like raw fish, jazz, green eyes and blowjobs. Or the sight of an ash blonde head in between his legs. Oh wait, that can't be right…
"What the fuck," he mutters under his breath, but she hears him loud and clear.
Her green eyes lock into his dumb stare, and she accidently bites down on the bratwurst because her immediate reaction was to explain herself, but she forgot that it was rude to talk with her mouth full. He shrieks like a little girl and she releases herself from him, cowering in fear from the dangerous embers that light his teary eyes.
Clocking him over the head with a book had brought them where they were today. It had caused her so much despair, a whirlwind of emotions that would last more than a lifetime. But now, she managed to surpass it, and she couldn't fathom the repercussions after maiming his other little head with her teeth.
A two-week voucher of personal massages will definitely not compensate for the damage this time. Seems like she would be paying him back for all of eternity, since the body that awkwardly pounces onto her confirms that it's not her job on the line. It's her life that he wants to take.