361A/N: This is a (VERY LATE) holiday fic for my non-fandom writing group SS, flutterby_cupcake_26 on AO3.
It's SoMa. It's sweet, sad, and sappy. I hope you find some enjoyment even if it's not your fandom or pairing, and I'm so so so sorry for being the worst latest SS EVAH!
Thanks go to sahdah for the eyes, the film suggestion, and also for doing a silly awesome thing when we talked about no shave November.
Fuck no shave November, that's all he has to say. Fuck no shave November, fuck Black Star for goading him into that ridiculousness, and most of all, fuck Maka for being so damned earnest, and so damned cute when she's so damned earnest that he never has the heart to say no when it actually matters to her. Not that he really denies her anything much ever.
No, really, fuck Maka. He wishes. Which is probably the reason he's in this mess. Well, more like sappy, gross, sentimental feelings. Refer back to that whole generally-forgets-the-word-no-when-she's-around thing.
The girl is definitely trouble.
With an exaggerated sigh, Soul scowls at his own face in the mirror. Yeah, alright, he's got a nice, full, white beard since he'd been too lazy to shave it off right away. And his usual mop of white hair under the silly red velvet cap. And a soft red suit now stuffed at the belly. So maybe he can pass for pop culture Santa, except the whole red eyes and mouth full of oddly sharp teeth that make him look more like Satan than Santa–hey, only a few letters off, really.
He grimaces at his own reflection, and actually, that's better than the scowl that would surely send kids screaming for the hills. Makes him look just that bit less like the devil posing as jolly old Saint Nick.
"So are you coming out?" A voice calls from the other side of the dressing room door. Is he? No. Definitely no. Being seen in public this way, even in a lame costume shop smack in the middle of a run down strip mall, is surely some form of social suicide, good bye cool, goodbye dignity, goodbye self-respect.
"Yeah, whatever," he says instead with another exaggerated sigh, his inability to say no to the girl on the other side of the door biting him in the ass for the umpteenth time this month alone.
Taking that last step to the door, Soul twists the knob and haltingly swings it open.
Ah, there she stands, his reason for the season, his cruel, cruel mistress, leaned so casually against the wall that he might be looking for new jeans rather than sealing his social suicide. Not that he's ever been much for people. Goodbye, cruel world!
"Oh my god, Soul, you look–you look–"
Her grin is stretched so wide across her face that he's sure it has to hurt, green eyes sparkling, and his heart does loop de loops in his chest cavity. Yes, Maka is trouble and he is in trouble, as usual.
"–Ridiculous?" Soul says before she can, the scowl firmly back in place in spite of the way her smile does funny things to his insides.
"I was going to say 'adorable,' but just at the moment, with that sour puss, you look like you want to maim me."
Well, he sort of does. Not maim, but mark, maybe. Touch definitely. Then again, he always wants that with her, the unobtainable, so that's easy enough to tamp down on. No, even more than that, just at the moment Soul wants to wither and die, or maybe disappear, anything to diminish the humiliation he feels as two teen girls trying on some sort of skimpy elf get ups come out from another dressing room and start giggling his way.
"Whatever." He shrugs as Maka glares at the girls, and unlike his scowl, that sends them scampering back into their dressing room. Go figure.
"I told you this wouldn't work–can we go now?"
"It'll work if you can refrain from glaring at the world for a whole hour of your life." She saunters up and puts a hand on his chest, stroking the material of the fuzzy red coat. Maka herself has donned an elf costume–short festive dress, pigtails, ears. She looks adorable. His scowl softens considerably at her proximity.
"Doubtful." Soul offers her a flat stare.
"Do it for the kids?"
This earns her an eyeroll even if he knows she knows that yes, he is a marshmallow on the inside, and yes, he would indeed humiliate himself to make sick kids smile even if no one else on the planet but her might realize that. Well, maybe Wes, but he's not here to back her claim.
"Then do it for the reward?"
"Reward?" He's already going to do it and they both damn well know it, but hell, may as well get something for the trouble and complete loss of cool.
"Mmm hmmm," she hums and smiles sweetly. "I'll bake your favorite cookies."
Maka's a good baker and pretty much never bakes. His stomach rumbles at the thought. "It's a start," he mutters.
"And…" Her hand continues to stroke at the material of the red coat.
"And?"
"I'll let you pick the movie tonight. Any movie, and I won't say a word. Or retaliate."
Well, that's also something. It's not his turn, and even when it is, if Soul picks something he knows Maka won't like, she will pick the worst historical romance bullshit she can find the week after. There's only so much coy flirting he can take, really, and the trite classical scores always give him childhood flashbacks he could do without.
"Getting warmer," the concession is grumbled.
"And, I'll rub your back while we watch the movie."
Ding ding ding we have a winner! Movie, cookies, and backrub with Maka. She's hit the trifecta, and fuck it all if that sly smile doesn't say she knows it.
Well, then.
"Fine, you win," he grumble-sighs, and it's only half for show because while he dreads the next hour, he has an evening of bliss ahead of him.
In the end, Soul supposes, an hour of Santa suit purgatory is a small price to pay.
—
A motorcycle ride later and they're at the hospital where Maka volunteers, picking up service hours to brighten up her med school applications.
At least riding through town as Santa on the bike with a cute elf plastered to his back had been cool. Sort of.
She gets off the motorcycle, long leg swinging over, then grins his way, eyes bright, holding out her hand expectantly after he himself gets off to put down the kickstand.
Fuck that smile is trouble. It never bodes well, makes him weak kneed, weak willed, stupid.
Still, as Maka drags him into the building, her hand warm in his, Soul thinks it's probably worth it to earn that smile–and especially for cookies and back rubs. Adjusting the pillow in his suit as they roll up to the first room slated for a visit from Kris Kringle himself, having mostly avoided notice on the way up, he figures how bad can it be? He's never minded kids. They're snotty and gross, sure, but also innocent. They tend to bring out his more protective side–as long as they aren't trying to share their snot hands with him.
Of course, the fact they'll expect close contact–hugs and lap sitting–had slipped his mind. The first little girl, recovering from heart surgery, offers him a sloppy wet cheek kiss after gushing about how much she wants a puppy. The kid is wide eyed and adorable, so Soul manages not to cringe and wipes his cheek only when she's not looking.
Maka's smile, soft and approving, is worth a bit of slobber.
It goes pretty much like that for the next thirty minutes, lots of little hands and excited faces and kids recovering from ailments of various severity.
Really, Soul had expected worse, so when one of the little turds–a kid recovering from a tonsillectomy of all things–manages to rack him in the balls as he leaps onto his lap unexpectedly, the fact an involuntary grimace sends the sandy haired little boy screaming hoarsely from the room about demon Santa isn't exactly shocking. Soul is actually surprised that he hasn't terrified more than one–but then, he's managed to keep a tight lipped smile in place most of the visit.
He does feel a little bad about scaring a kid. Or maybe a lot bad. The sympathetic squeeze of his hand Maka offers just after helps, though, and he makes the rest of his rounds even more careful to keep his teeth out of sight. No need to give the poor things nightmares.
Feeling pretty good about the whole thing even with the humiliation of sporting a cheesy red suit, he reaches the last few rooms, the last few kids who signed up for a visit with Santa today. This one is in the cancer ward, and as the concept of kids with cancer slams into him, suddenly, being born a partial albino with unnaturally sharp teeth doesn't seem so bad.
Most of the kids have a good prognosis, at least. Most of them will likely live.
It's when he gets to the last room, the sickest kid, that it hurts.
The kid is devoid of any hair, and Soul isn't sure if they're a boy or a girl with a name like Jade, not that it matters.
Looking up with tired brown eyes as Santa and his elf enter, the kid manages a weary smile.
"Santa, you came!" they gasp, voice high and raspy. "Mama said you would but I wasn't sure because it's not Christmas yet, but you came!"
"Course I came," Soul says gruffly, hand moving half up to ruffle non existent hair before lowering again sheepishly. "Couldn't let down someone at the top of my nice list."
"Really?" Deep brown eyes go wide.
"Really really," Soul confirms, and feels Maka squeeze the hand she's been holding for three rooms straight. She gives him a loaded look as the child continues to stare in wonder. "So, what would you like for Christmas this year, little one?"
"That's easy" The kid's face lights up. "I just want to get better! You can do that, right Santa?"
A punch to the gut would have hurt less. "I–I mean–"
"Santa will do everything he can to help!" Maka cuts in, voice too high, too cheerful. "But since you've been so good, is there anything else you'd like?"
A vigorous nod does nothing to alleviate the clenching fist that holds his heart. He can't breathe. "Uh huh. A pony. So I can ride when I'm better!"
He feels a hard squeeze to his hand, so he stammers out, "I'll–see what I can do. Anything else?"
The kid blinks, possibly awed at so much choice."Maybe a 3DS for until I'm better?"
Managing a nod and a tight smile, Soul reaches down to pat the kid's shoulder. "Sounds like a good list. I'll do my best."
After a hug, they leave the room, and as they do, midway through the hall, Soul tugs Maka to a stop.
"Do ya think–" he licks too dry lips. "I mean, kid will be okay, right?"
"I–" she squeezes the hand she still hasn't let go, shakes her head. "It doesn't look good, but it could happen. And–seeing you–seeing Santa–hope is a big part of healing. You did a good thing, Soul."
Maybe. Sure doesn't feel like it just now. Internally, he resolves to talk to Maka later about connecting with the parents, maybe call his own parents if money is an object. He can't cure cancer, but the other shit could happen.
He may not be the real Santa, but he isn't Satan either. This much, he can do.
Soul's heart is heavy, full, as they mount the bike for home.
—
Back at their apartment, he stares in the mirror again, hardly recognizing himself. After over a month with fur on his face, the clean shave is foreign and slightly itchy, but removing the hair had felt cleansing. Nearly cathartic. He feels lighter without it, even if his eyes are shadowed and maybe a little haunted.
Blinking away the heaviness, Soul is lured from the bathroom by the smell of heaven. Cookies and back rubs await and the world looks a shade brighter, though darkness still looms in his mood like a storm cloud.
Soon enough, he's in trouble again.
To Maka's shock, Soul decides on a romcom, something he generally avoids when it's his pick as a matter of principle because, in truth, he doesn't really mind them–it's just completely uncool to admit it.
Selecting something called Love, Rosie that pops up first in in the romance section, he shrugs off Maka's skepticism.
"Was a rough day, okay? We could both use a laugh."
That's true enough, but only part of it. The other, bigger part, is that lately, for whatever reason, Maka gets more clingy and touchy during rom coms and he really could use the closeness just about now. It hadn't always been that way, and sometimes Soul wonders what the change means, but he figures he's definitely trying to read too much into it. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Movie queued, cookies out, and Maka positioned slightly behind him for optimal back exposure, they begin to watch.
As the movie rolls on, Soul has to cringe just a little. He hadn't realized this movie is about a pair of best friends who are in love but neither knows how the other feels. It's a bit too close for comfort for him, but since Maka doesn't share the same affinity, it should be alright. He's used to suffering in silence.
It really is painful to watch, but it's also soothing on another level. Cookies are delicious, and Maka rubs his back a good quarter of the flick as they watch before casually snuggling against him. Soul could almost trick himself into believing they're together and not just best friends. It's nice, being close, as it's always nice. Though–sometimes, it's more than nice, and he has to will down the thrill that runs through him bring together with her this way when it doesn't mean the same thing to her. The way she rubs his chest absently as they watch is distracting.
The movie is like watching his own heart bleed out on the table. Fortunately, it eventually ends better than it ever will for him. Not that he's allowed to stew, not with Maka of the brain and the thoughts at his side. After the couple in the film go through years of running, of pinning, of not being able to get it together until they finally do only to consummate the whole thing (thankfully) offstage, Maka murmur-asks mid way through staring blankly at the credits, "I wonder if it ever happens that way?"
She's probably talking to herself, but it makes his pulse quicken.
"I think it can," Soul responds, and she lifts her head from his chest, fingers stilling then clutching the fabric of his shirt.
"Really?" Her brow furrows. "Because I always figured if two people are friends for so long and they both have feelings, it would have to come out much sooner–really come out. I mean, they were friends so long, how did they not realize it? Why would they run? I'd think, if it weren't a movie, it would probably be one sided, and that's why it never went anywhere."
"Could be," he admits. "Or could be they're just both really good at hiding. Remember Kim and Jackie?"
"I suppose," Maka sighs. "But life's too short to hide for so long." Soul knows her well enough to know she's remembering that little boy, remembering all the kids who might not live long enough for love to ever be possible.
He swallows thickly. It feels like they're on a precipice and he doesn't exactly understand it because Maka is Maka. She's not hiding, surely, because she never hides from anything. Maybe it's his precipice, the moment he loses her, he thinks, as fear stirs in his heart. Fear of losing her in his silence as she eventually finds someone and grows beyond him–fear of losing her if he speaks because he is unworthy.
Panic could last hours but she doesn't let it. "I'm tired of hiding, Soul."
What?
Hiding… from what?
His heart thunders in his chest as she sits straighter, pauses the movie, wide green eyes seeking him with mere inches between them.
"What are you–hiding from?" he manages, feeling faint, body flashing hot, palms slicking rapidly.
"My feelings. And his, maybe."
His–Soul's heart crashes and burns in an instant. Not yours.
Still, if Maka feels that way–fuck–the way she looks at him now, shy and bold and waiting, hope springs eternal. He quashes it down as always. It's not for him, clearly, but if it's for someone–he can't be selfish, can he? Can't keep her from happiness if it rests at her fingertips?
Another thick swallow and Soul chokes out the words that could murder his heart.
"You should tell him." His voice is more steady than it has any right to be. "Hell," he keeps going, words pouring out because he feels like his world is falling apart at the thought of her gone, but he's not quite selfish enough to stop it, so it's now or never–he doesn't know if he'll have the courage to push her towards another twice. "Tell him tonight. We already finished the movie so you fulfilled your end of the bargain. You can go and–tell him now."
So caught up in his own pain, his own push to get her through, Soul doesn't immediately notice that her face has fallen, but it has, that tiny crease of frustration between her brows calling to him to smooth it with his thumb in gentle circles, though he doesn't, doesn't have the right to cross that line.
"I'm trying," Maka huffs out, half under her breath, looking up at him from under her bangs. "He's just not listening. Or maybe he just–doesn't feel the same way."
At first, the words flow over him like so much water, too many implications to catch a single drop, but then his mind works, struggling to break the surface, reeling as he does.
Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit.
"I–" he stammers, heart about to break from his chest, hammering faster than his body can possibly contain. "I mean–he–he does." As her brow furrows more deeply, he quickly adds, "feel that way, I mean. About–about her."
Soul is drowning in fear elation her, has no idea what comes next, but he might have known if his head were clear. Maka being Maka looks at him, eyes wide before going strong and clear with resolve as she sits straighter, leans closer, leans so close that their foreheads touch when she breathes out, "Soul, can I kiss you?"
Words fail, so he just leans himself, closes the distance, and their lips meet.
Maka Maka Maka. Is kissing him. Has feelings for him. Is now sliding onto his lap to straddle him, to tangle her hands in his hair, to dart her tongue across his lips, then inside, sliding against his.
Oh god, the few sad kisses he's shared with others had been nothing like this, nothing nothing nothing.
The gross saliva of near strangers was unpleasant, but this is Maka and he can't get enough of her tongue.
His confusion is only momentary as she eventually pulls away, panting, forehead resting against his again as her eyes search his.
"You really–feel this way?" she manages. Soul definitely feels some kind of way, a lot of ways, really, as the beating of his heart, the elated haze wrapped around his mind, and the stiffness in his pants can all attest.
"Yeah, have for–a long time. Since junior year."
"Of col–" she begins, but he cuts it short.
"Of high school."
"Oh." Maka flushes. "Uh, me too."
It clicks then. Suddenly and forcefully–they are so stupid.
"Prom?" Soul raises his eyebrows, memory hitting him like a freight truck.
"Prom," she agrees with a sheepish smile.
He gets it because that was also his moment, dancing with her, feeling like it was just where he was supposed to be. Knowing, suddenly, that the dreams weren't just dreams and what he felt for her–that constant affection–had changed, evolved, grown. Looking down at her, so close, so beautiful, so Maka, getting swept up in the music and her wide green eyes and nearly kissing her, feeling like she was about to kiss him, only he'd thought he was being gross, reading what wasn't there, crossing a line. Soul had pulled away and their lives went on.
Until now. Until only just now. Another year of high school, the past three of college, that's how long it had taken.
"You wanted to kiss me."
"I thought you were going to kiss me. And I realized I wanted you to. And then when you didn't–I figured I had read what wasn't there and I just–" Maka bites her lip. "Ignored it."
"I wanted to kiss you," Soul admits. "Was just–afraid you didn't want me to."
"Well, I did," she sounds frustrated.
"I know that now," he says softly.
"Well, then, do something about it."
So he does, and she does, and the romcom is long forgotten as they make up for lost time, realizing all the while that it really can happen that way, and life's too short not to roll with it when it finally, finally does.
