Love Is Tainted

by AKimiB

He doesn't exist beyond the fence... Maybe it would better if she didn't either. Alternate Universe, Male!Crona (CroMa) STORY ON HIATUS, will continue once I recompile information and re-watch series

1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.

Author's Note(It's a little long, sorry!): Okay, first and foremost, Crona is a MALE in this fic. Please, no arguing! (My reasoning is at the end of the chapter!)

This is my first time writing in present-tense with stream-of-thought flow... I'm pretty much dappling in different styles. Please be kind, I'm still really new at this writing thing(even with a few stories under my belt.)

Characters will most likely be a bit OOC because this fic will be dealing with some pretty dark times, bitter feelings, AU-ness, etc... It will be vulgar, probably won't have a whole lot of heartwarming fluff-stuff and could possibly be a trigger for those susceptible to self-harm/kleptomania/substance abuse/sexual abuse trauma, and , possibly other things, too... I don't agree with/condone/endorse/approve of some of the things this story will contain. Proceed with caution, please. AND/OR! You may end up finishing this story and say to yourself, "What the hell did I just read?" I'm just being honest.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts, constructive criticism, anything as long as you are not blatantly rude. END OF SUPER LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE! Heeyyyaahhh!

Chapter 1:

It's hot, just like every other day in this God forsaken place.

The waxy, green speckled branches sway with blasts of burning wind, casting vain shadows over her. It doesn't soothe Maka in the least as she turns another page of her -questionable- reading. Half-lidded emerald eyes lazily soak in the words as her blonde locks dance in the sweltering gusts. Heaving a sigh, she closes the tattered paperback and rubs a palm over her face.

Not even the mediocre cooling effect of sweat is awarded.

No, in the desert, landlocked and swept away from most water sources, you bake internally. Humidity is a luxury not provided and Maka grumbles, admitting her defeat. Moving drained, heavy limbs to stand, dry grass crunches beneath her feet as she wanders across the grounds of the park. Painted in jade and vibrant colors, so lively, it baffles the mind how dead everything feels.

Even her.

Especially her.

She passes through the ebony-barred gates, attending the sidewalk leading deeper into town.

Fingers fidgeting with the zipper of her simple cloth bag, Maka fishes her bottle of warm water from the bottom; gripping the flimsy plastic, uncapping and grimacing as the liquid slides down her throat, lubricating but failing miserably at quenching her thirst. It seems that that is something that can never be tamed.

Thirst.

Heat.

Death.

This is Death City, after all. Maybe or maybe not in such a literal sense. But, it sure feels like it.

Crowded streets packed with the bustling bodies of young and old, noxious with suffocating perfumes and cologne, or body odor of those less cleanly, invades her senses as she fights her way through the blurred commotions.

Nothing is deserving of her immediate attention. Nothing interesting enough to change her mind. Just a mindless stroll through the colliding currents of rushing limbs, torso walls and bad attitudes. All parting, making way for her. Their faces seem to mesh with her movements, streaming with one another, as they all wear the same revolted and perturbed look.

Loose pebbles from the pavement scrape beneath Maka's worn sneakers; she can feel each jagged edge as they roll beneath the balls of her feet with each new step. Conditioned to pay no mind, she continues to dodge and weave their stares without emotion swiftly through her route.

Robotic. As if she was programmed for that very purpose.

Too soon does she find her way to the door of the house that she resides.

Not a home, that was broken long ago.

Her teeth are grit, grinding against each other as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Reaching for the warm metal, she twists the device and forces her entry. The creaking echoes from the threshold and throughout the empty, near-barren rooms and air leaves her in disappointed shuddering spurts.

Every time. Every damn time, she hopes beyond reason.

Hopes that her father is home and her mother is smiling at her, peeking from around one of the corners.

But, that will never happen. Their family is broken, just like her home.

Maka bows her head as she steps into the house fully, sliding the door shut behind her. Slipping her shoes off of her aching feet, she lets the tile cool the hot soles as they pad in tandem down the hall and into her room.

Mechanical.

Every other day she does the same. The very same routine she held when everything was as it should be. But, just doing the same thing doesn't change what happened, nor the aftermath; the outcome.

There is nothing in this room aside from a mildew-riddled, mold-infested outfit, an already wrecked pair of shoes, and a mattress. They took everything.

Creditors, theives, her mother, her father.

She's not even supposed to be here, but really... Where the hell is she supposed to go?

Her father is hanging on by a thread in the hospital, fighting viruses and diseases that he contracted while ruining her family. Her mother left, probably heartbroken, ashamed and afraid... Infected.

In the middle of the night, no less.

Hollow emerald stares out at the ray of pale yellow light that flows in from the window pane. Dust swaying in a taunting dance, floating in the air all around as she absently runs her thumb pads over the old mattress' stitching.

It's almost comforting really. To think that the rooms, the air, halls are filled with these particles. That she isn't alone here.

No, that's just silly. She shakes her head and limply falls back on the small pad with a groan. Toddler sized, but it does the job to keep her off of the floor. She was lucky to find it before the trash men came, her neighbors were none the wiser.

Lips twitching in a bitter smile, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply; the stale, stagnant oxygen fills her lungs in grainy, unsatisfactory pulls.

Sleep and reading. They are all she has now. This house will be taken soon and then... She may not even get that much, often.

Slowly, Maka lets her mind go, surrendering to the delicious numbing fog as the darkness surrounds her. Engulfing her. Only one thought left lingering as her mirthless chuckle morphs into soft snoring.

What's next?

O.O.O

"Papa." Clipped and emotionless is her one word greeting as she slips on her paper mask and into the cold room. Disinfectants sting at her shielded nostrils and the beeping of monitors assault her ears.

Why does she even come here? It's not like he's strong enough to hear her or even in his right mind enough to understand the word she speaks.

That's right, one word.

Maka has tried to talk about her day, attempted to inform this living corpse of the financial issues and other various troubles... But, the last time she did that, she had to be physically removed from the premises by a douchebag in a hazmat suit.

It's his fault, don't they know?!

She won't even approach him anymore. He just stays there, prostrate, staring but not seeing with those unfocused, glassy eyes; sunken and sagged, blinking, but nothing more.

Maka deserves more, right?

It's infuriating. He's infuriating.

She growls under her breath, letting the gust from the air conditioner wrap her body in its pleasant frigidity as she plops herself into the stiff cyllindrical chair. Pulling the book from the folds of her bag, her fingers flip through the pages gently.

This is her baby, her world to escape the one of reality.

And, it's her last one. The only one that she managed to hang on to. Sure, there is a library... But, in there they look at her funny and besides, her mother helped her pick this one out. Whether it's stupid to hang on to it or not is irrelevant. You can't reason with your own feelings or attatchments when they run this deep.

Finding where she left off last, she sinks deeper into the unforgiving cushions, losing herself once again. Because, within the paragraphs and chapters, strung words and perfectly composed dialogues... she can.

Maka's orbs soften and glaze as she takes in what used to be her favorite scene: a declaration of undying love, the protagonist's determination to go to the ends of the Earth, fight both the forces of Heaven and Hell to protect it. If only such a thing were real. If only people would really cherish such a thing.

But, it is only a myth. Divorce reigns, infidelity more rampant than not.

If love was truly real, wouldn't these things simply not exist? If everyone is so capable of such a thing, why is the real world so revolting?

It isn't real. It's only a fantasy. A mere fabrication of the minds of dreamers and idealists.

A sad sigh passes her downturned lips as she closes the book, running her fingertips over the flimsy cover. A couple of darkened spots soaking into the battered sheet glisten under the bright lights of this sterile room. Maka pauses, bringing a hand to her cheeks.

Hot and soaked. She's crying again... Fantastic.

Her brows furrow as she studies the moisture on her digits, and then, she sees him.
Laying there, helpless, between the spaces of her spread fingers.

Her father, Spirit; gaunt and pallid, wheezing with help of a respirator behind clear plastic curtains. Tubes and needles piercing and passing through his flesh; liquids being pumped into his body, coming out into his hidden colostomy bag and catheter. Maka's eyes harden, narrowing at the sight. Her arm falls.

That, right there, is the epitome of love in the real world.

Living death. Pain. A sour fable.

Ha! Maybe love isn't fake after all. It's just not what everyone believes it to be.

She scoffs, scowling as she pushes herself up from the seat. Shaking her head, she lays the novel on the seat with care. Taking off her shoes, she pats across the bleach-sticky vinyl floor into the bathroom.

At the very least, she has something to look forward to when coming to this place.

She opens the heavy door, flipping the switch and flinches from the blaring bulbs reflected and doubled in intensity by the rectangular mirror.

"Fucking hell!" Sheilding her face with her forearms, Maka hisses as she steps into the small room, letting her eyes adjust.

She avoids the mirror; she always hates what she sees.

Her clothes come off a piece at a time, mask on the countertop, the rest gets hung from the shower rod in hopes that somehow they will take the steam and miraculously be cleaned. As if the grime would simply melt off.

It's been a while since she's had clean clothes, or water and electricity at her house. A month or so, actually.

The showerhead sprays forcefully and she steps into the pluming fog. Falls of hot water pelt her scalp and back in scalding sheets that she gasps at.

A moment of blissful relaxation before she has to face yet another day.

Tension wound so tight within her muscles loosen as the water massages them, beating the kinks and knots out of her. The rough hospital rag hangs loosely in her fist as she empties another small bottle of soap onto it.

Maka's face stings as she passes the washcloth over her cheeks, her eyes remain closed. Squeezing shut and even tighter as she moves lower. Her chest, arms, torso, legs; scrubbing herself at the surface until she's pink, almost completely raw.

She grinds her teeth, tears stinging, welling behind the lids as she collapses in on herself, beneath the spray.

If they were falling, they were masked with the droplets from the polished pipe. Shuddering sobs wrack her rosy naked form as she clings to her knees, burying her burning face, muffling the embarrassing sounds that she's emitting.

It's not fair. Her mother, she didn't deserve what she got for -supposedly- loving a man. Maka didn't deserve this abandonment. They both did this, and yet... she's at just as much fault. If only she would beg more, then would she finally get assistance? Crawl on her knees, pleading for mercy, even with all that circumstance has handed her?

The scalding rivers flowing down her hunched body feel nice, as if all her problems are eroding, whisked away; swirling, down into the drain. But, things don't happen like that, do they?

Maka sniffles, as her eyes pour out the sorrow that she refuses to show others. She's stubborn, prideful, she knows she is. So, it took nearly all she had just to ask for help, to explain it all without losing her hard-earned composure...

She was pushed away, denied. Her dignity can only take so much abuse before it snaps, it's already at it's breaking point. The shelters had no room for her, her friends politely retracted their help -and their company- with news of her parent's 'condition.'

As if she were defective. She's clean, damnit! Well, at least, when it comes to physical health. Maka's fists shake, balled so tightly against her ankles as her nails dig into her palms. She stands, letting them hang to her sides as the water continues its violent rain.

Yanking the tiny bottle of shamditioner, she attacks her scalp. Gripping her hair and pawing at the surface. It's not good for it, but damn it if it doesn't feel good.

A dull ache sears with her grabs and the scrape of her nails bite as they work through her head with the soothing lather. It's what she wants.

Pain and clarity. Instead of the shit she's handed, outside of this blissful shower. Maka's tired of the emptiness. She's not stupid, she knows that happiness is not an option. With pain, at least she would be feeling something. Everything, anything but this hollow, freezing emptiness that has taken root at her core.

Grabbing the complimentary razor, she attacks the prickling hairs that began to sprout over the course of the day before. Who exactly is she shaving for, anyway? Herself? She scoffs.

But, it's true.

She does it to retain some sense of normalcy. No one wants to touch her, no one wants to be anywhere near her.

"Shhhiiihaa..." Maka hisses inwardly as the sharp edge nicks at her skin. It burns, but with it the tiny cut brings a sense of relief. The way scarlet trails down her shin is mesmerizing; feathering out with the moisture and unique texture of her skin, inching downwards in a dilatory yet definite line.

Beautiful, even.

She steps fully under the lukewarm water, letting the suds rinse from the tangled flaxen locks as she huffs, watching the sanguine-tinted bubbles run in swirls around the chrome circle. She lets the sight lull her; somehow Maka's heartbeat and breathing slow, her body feels astonishingly light; tingling like the air twittering about in her lungs.

It's nice.

Gripping the handle, she yanks it to the side stopping the spray in an instant. Her forehead resting against the hard rubber wall's surface, she leans, letting the water bead, slowly rolling down her heated flesh as the last trace of crimson disappears.

That is what they are all afraid of. Her life's essence, the substance that courses throughout her entire being.

But, they don't know. They'll never know... They won't let themselves.

O~O~O

"Your vitals seem to be stabilizing quite nicely." This woman hums boredly, looking at her watch as the body-warmed bell of her stethoscope presses lightly against the tender scar on his chest. He hisses at the jolt of pain, but tries to maintain a straight face.

"... And you're healing quickly enough, as well." She turns her gaze to the pink haired teen, cocking her brow in amusement. He only responds with a shaky nod, not yet trusting his voice.

"Maybe, I'll even let you out of the house if your recovery continues this well." Her lips curl in a vicious smirk. The boy's head snaps up at this, his pale blue eyes wide and quaking in disbelief.

"M-Mother, do you-?" Her smirk falls as her orbs narrow at the boy. Not yet, he hasn't earned that luxury. He's still incomplete.

"What have I told you about addressing me in such manner?" She cuts him off, her tone is low, dangerous as she applies more pressure to the sore spot.

"Ahh-mmp!" Crona bites his lip to stifle the yelp, trembling.

"I-I'm sorry, Doctor Gorgon! It's just," he whimpers as the metal leaves the healing wound, sticking and pulling slightly as it disconnected, sending fresh shocks of sharp stings down the dark crimson line, "I've never been allowed to leave before." He mumbles on a pant, relieved that the contact has ended as his focus shifts around the floor.

"I never said that you could leave, I said that you could simply exit the house, depending on your recovery." She snorts, standing stiffly and regarding the boy with cold eyes. Turning, she walks toward the door of the room, pausing before she exits. Medusa turns her head.

"You know how much I love you, right?" Her sweet voice is like venom dripping from the fangs of a snake, but it is lost on the boy with her smile.

"You would do well to try and make me proud. Get well soon~!" She leaves with a wave, the door clicks shut behind her.

Crona grabs his crumpled black robe, fingering the material, his eyes deviate around the stark room in the silence. It shuffles mutely, while he shrugs it on and works the ties down it's length.

His icy orbs fall on the other cot in the room; the one parallel his own.

It's been weeks now. He's been between consciousness and surgeries, the days have blended but that one thing has always stuck out, with the fleeting grasp of his own mind.

Ragnarok. His twin, not identical but still his other half.

He's gone.

Their life has always been a struggle, a fight to survive. With every painful test, every experiment in the name of bettering a society that they were never to be a part of, in the name of science; they had always been together. Ragnarok is his boulder, his strength, the one to verbally knock his senses into place when he felt like giving into infection and wasting away with every slice.

Where is he?

Crona's brows furrow as he takes an afflictive paltry breath, gingerly laying himself along the rough canvas of his bed. The metal poles holding stretched material protests in drawn squeaks as he winces, situating himself more comfortably. He hurts down to his bones; it vibrates, thrumming through each one individually in shocks. It's a different kind of ache though.

Weighted. He feels so heavy, and yet, he's so small.

She said that this was the last one; last procedure. But, really, how many times has he heard those same words before?

He's living, breathing currently. Though, when is the next time his body rejects her alterations? It has happened plenty of times before, leading both himself and Ragnarok right back onto those cold tables, under those lights and that scalpel.

To be splayed open, poked, prodded and taken apart; only to be put back together again... Like messy human puzzles.

Where the hell is Ragnarok?!

Crona's breathing speeds as he grips the sides of his cot, trying desperately not to grab at his choppy, multi-operation-styled hair, in case they are still there, and rip the stitches along his scalp.

Would they still be there? How long does it take for them to dissolve? He doesn't know and he definitely doesn't want to touch to find out. He hates the feel of stitches, hates thinking that they are holding his head together.

He bites his lip, his lungs expel oxygen faster than he can fill them as his heart beats painfully against his heavy, aching ribs. Is he suffocating? Dying? Is this what a heart attack feels like? Will it beat so hard that it just explodes? It can't do that! He needs to stay alive, needs to be here when his brother returns!

Ragnarok... Where...?

His anxiety is crippling, sight is fogged; ethereal-looking against the ever-present fluorescent light, yet darkening. Crona can see the outline of the veins in his eyes, etched through his hazy vision like lightening striking with every pulse. Beyond the thundering of blood in his ears, it's like he can almost hear his brother's voice in his head.

"God damn it, asshole! Fucking breathe! Shit's fine... Breathe." That voice, it sounds urgent. Even though Crona is sure it is just his own imagination, it's comforting. Pacifying.

Familiar.

He closes his eyes, trying to drown out the throbbing of his skeleton and the stinging of his skin, focusing on the voice in his head, one that sounds so much like his brother; cursing his frail neurosis with jeers until Crona's breathing steadies, his body relaxes.

Tired. He's so very exhausted. To be functional, aware, is so much effort. Crona lets go, allowing himself a moment of peace in oblivion.

Behind closed orbs, his brother is gulping down soup like an animal and making crude remarks about movies they were permitted to see while lain-up during recovery.

He's playing with the bathroom's bidet, spouting commentary about rain dances as the pinkette gags, thinking about where that water is meant to go; making Crona mop it up while he laughs steadily. Because Ragnarok would not clean it and Crona doesn't like stepping in water on the floor in the bathroom, he would think it's pee and that's just nasty. Just as gross as butt spray.

Ragnarok is pointing out his new stitches, connecting them all with imaginary lines drawn with his finger. He's making faces, people. Throwing his drug-husky voice to act out a bar joke with the different characters... Whatever a bar is. Crona doesn't know, but it's funny while submerged head-first into a medication stupor.

He dreams of better times, of having his brother by his side to make light of their lives, of companionship; An escape from the loneliness that has pronounced and grown into his every day in the waking world.

The door opens once more as the woman slinks in, twirling the strands of her odd blonde braid around the fingers of one hand as she reaches into the pocket of her lab coat with the other, humming softly. Her lips twitch with barely contained excitement as she silently draws nearer the unconscious boy. Her bare feet padding carefully, skillfully across the polished stone floor as she drops her locks to uncap the needle, prepped and ready in her grasp.

Medusa's eyes light up and she bites her lip to stifle the charged laughter bubbling in her throat as she thrusts the needle skillfully into an artery in the boy's neck.

His shaking sky blues shoot open with a startled cry, his body gives a short-lived thrash. His orbs roll back into their sockets, lids fluttering as the thin inky fluid is pushed into his bloodstream. It drags him into the abyss of paralytic torpor, all the while fire courses, burning through his veins.

The last thing to reach his ears is his mother whispering a warped lullaby into his ear.

"I love you, Crona~." She snickers, recapping the tip while taking long strides to exit the room.

The boy is so close to perfection, she can almost taste it's sweetness.

O~O~O

"I'm sorry, but visiting hours are over. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Maka takes in the woman's disheveled state from over the top of her novel. Her scrubs are damp in areas, her hair is frizzing out of it's braids, held messily in a loose ponytail and her eyes are both bruised and bagged with exhaustion, hardly hidden by her dark complexion.

Must have been one hell of a shift, but Maka can't help herself.

"For once, I feel like staying." She spouts boredly, returning to the words on the page, "Now... Shoo!" Waving the woman off, she smiles smugly behind the paper mask and her book's cover.

The woman gives an irritated throaty sigh.

"Not an option, kid. This is a hospital, not a hotel. It's by pure luck that your father is even permitted to stay." The nurse's words cut through the girl straight to where it hurts, that upward simper falling to a deep frown and a glare that could turn men to stone.

That's right. The whore-sister of her father's doctor. The root of all this disease. Spirit always was close to this Doctor Stein,... or whatever his name is.

Too fucking close.

That man basically aided her father with his years of infidelity; endless days of suffering for her mother and now a lifetime of emptiness and anger for herself. Stein introduced that bitch to him, pretty much throwing her family into a whirlwind of homewrecking STD's , acquired immune deficiency syndrome, meningitis. He felt guilty, so the bed and room are a perk of pro-bono.

How fucking sweet of him, right? Though, still, the blame is entirely on the man laying in that bed.

Maka rolls her eyes as she grinds her teeth, letting out a nasally exhale, much like a bull ready to charge. "Right."

The nurse folds her arms, tapping her foot on the vinyl none-so-covertly.

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you..." Maka mumbles as she pushes herself from the chair and snatches her bag, carefully, yet forcefully, stuffing her book into it's pocket. She stomps to the exit, throwing her weight into her shoulder as she bumps into the rude nurse.

"'Ey! Sorry about that. I've been sitting a while, you know? Wonky legs." The nurse jumps back, away from further contact, brushing at her scrubs furiously in distress. Maka chuckles at the pissed off glower she gets from her as she stumbles backwards down the hall with hands up in mock surrender, turning on a wink.

"...Cunt." Maka grunts as she rips off the paper mask, crumpling in her hand while she begins to navigate the creepy deserted passages of the 'No Hope' wing.

Her shoes clack, resounding, bouncing off of the plain walls as she turns corner after corner, through this clinical maze. Information desks stand empty, papers neatly piled by flickering computer screens.

Where are the nurses? Where are the doctors?

Those are questions that Maka always asks herself, but never cares enough to have anyone answer. She can draw her own conclusions, that's why she dubbed this place the 'No Hope' wing, after all. No one really cares. They are all just waiting for death, the workers are merely the clean-up crew.

Maka tosses the crumpled mask into the small trash can at the foot of a desk without stopping.

She finally reaches the automatic sliding doors and the warm evening air greets her in a suffocating embrace. Maka groans, leaning against the concrete wall for support, trying to acclimate herself.

The walk is going to suck. She knows this already.

A few breaths and she's steady enough to move on. Dizziness subsides a little as her head clears from the darkened flashes that popped behind her eyes.

But, it never really goes away.

So many thoughts storm through her mind, from memories to the dreaded thoughts of 'what if?' It doesn't help that she hasn't eaten well -if anything- since graduation, hasn't seen her 'friends' since then either.

Does it even really matter anymore?

No, it doesn't. She's as empty inside as she feels emotionally. It's fitting, really.

Her legs move slowly, deliberately over the side walks and across the street. Crosswalks are nothing but a waste of time, a waste of concern.

Overhead the lights lining her route dully illuminate her every step, passing through each coned ray and into darkness, to the light and back again. A strobe-effect that only serves to draw her deeper into her own mind.

There was a time when she walked this path with both parents. She held their hands so tightly as she swung from them, squealing, giggling up at the adoring smiles they gave to her.

They were all happy once, right? That wasn't just a dream?

It's been so long, she couldn't really say. What's it like to smile without forcing it? To laugh, to feel that rush of pleasant warmth spread as the sound escapes in ridiculous trills? Maka doesn't need to see to know what direction she's heading. She doesn't want to be in that house, never does after seeing him.

Absently, she stretches her hand out to the side, her fingertips graze the iron bars as she watches her feet kick up from the porous pavement. The holes pass like a negative of falling stars upon the ground.

The gate whines, breaking her from the hypnotic sight and pausing her feet. She's here again, the park.

It's so different at night, muted. Instead of the blinding shades trying to hide the brittle state of the plants and brush, the shadows sway and calignosity seems to call to her. Maka pushes the gate open, ignoring the screech of oil-neglected hinges, walking through. Familiarly, grass crunches beneath her shoes, rustling with her stride.

They say that the park is dangerous at night. That the hoodlums and drug pushers gather here, rapists, murderers... That doesn't scare her. She welcomes whatever pain they could give her.

Because pain is better than being hollow.

Numb.

Empty.

She eyes the nearing tree blankly, disappointed even. This place, this supposedly dangerous fucking place, is empty. There is no one aside from her, as always. Maka sighs, closing her eyes as she slides down the rough bark.

She's perpetually alone. Should she have expected any different?

O.O.O

Noise. There is so much of it.

Laughing, chirping, the buzz of chatter and the rolling clomps of running shoes beating against cement.

Ugh. Joggers. Who in the hell wants to run in this place? So hot. Draining.

It's too bright to be morning. Maka groans, burying her face in the crook of her elbow as one hand groggily swipes the dirt from her face.

She props herself on her elbow, at terms with the day and feels around for her stuff, clutching the bag to her chest. She doesn't feel like moving, doesn't want to bother with the crowd or to see him again. So, hauls the book and her nearly empty bottle of water from the sack, taking a small but greedy sip of the hot liquid as she flips back to the first page.

She's read these words so many times. Each time, they elicit the same result; Escape. This is her escape, her get-a-way, her sanity.

Maka recaps the bottle as it crinkles and cracks in her grasp, shoving it back into the pocket. It only holds a few more drops at best, she should have filled it yesterday. She wasn't thinking clearly, barely can any more.

Scooting backwards, she situates herself more comfortably into the groove of the tree's roots. Ready for another day of the same. Her routine. Maybe something will change?

That's laughable.

Maka's lips twitch, a halfhearted chuckle escaping as she re-reads about the novel's heroine, her struggle with family that used her just to throw her away. The way she felt useless. Nothing more than trash to be swept to the streets; hauled away to rot.

"...But, then she meets him." Maka scoffs under her breath. That shit doesn't happen in reality. She knows this, and still she's sucked into the story as it unfolds once more.

Again.

Then again. Because Maka will keep on until she is no longer able to. Her life is on repeat, a cycle. Left waiting for something, anything to break it.

Maybe she has gone bat-shit crazy. Wasn't it Einstein that said 'insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results'?

No, she's not crazy. She doesn't expect a damn thing. Hope, though. It's completely different... Right?

She turns the page, narrowing her eyes, trying desperately to make the atmosphere fade away and her imagination to take the reins.

O~O~O

It's so cold. Why is it always so cold?

He tries to lift his hand, to open his eyes, to make a sound. Yet he stays silent and his limbs won't budge. The skin of his eyelids itch, that can only mean one thing.

He's back on that metal slab.

Slowly, amidst the static hissing and the pounding in his ears, he can roughly make out voices. They sound like whispers, yet they aren't. He knows this, he's been like this before... Too many times to count.

He knows both voices, but only one of their faces. His mother and the other is a male. They are laughing. Are they laughing at him? Is he nothing but a joke? No... No... His mother, Doctor Gorgon, she loves him, sings to him, works on him to improve him, to further the evolution of the human race in order to bring perfection into being. Why would she be laughing?

Crona is paralyzed. He can't move, straining to hear more than the bursts of laughter that sounds more the like crackling of plastic wrap is taxing. His throat contracts around the tube in his throat and his mind tries to fight through the fuzz and fog.

"Impressive." Who is this man? "...It seems you really have found a use for them." Them? Is Ragnarok here? Crona's breathing quickens slightly.

"I told you I would." Crona can hear the smile in her voice. Though, there's an undertone that is always there with this man that he never hears when she speaks with him or his brother. It's confusing and a little off-putting.

Crona faintly detects the scrape of metal on what sounds like stone and a prickling pressure on his ribs, jolting him out of his thoughts to listen more intently. It's all he can do.

"...And this has spread throughout his entire structure?" The man's low voice is nearly breathless as footsteps sound all around Crona's limp form. Circling him, observing him. "Fascinating."

"Aww, my dear Franken!" The woman's timbre is even more amused, taunting the faceless man. Crona would have shuddered at her pitch, had he control over his body. "If that is all that you think I've accomplished, you sell me short." Medusa giggles, slow and deeply. "Watch."

Crona feels another small pressure at his side, along with heat suffused with pins and needles. Then there is nothing.

He hadn't realized until now that his body no longer aches. Paralysis or not, he can usually feel everything if he gains consciousness. No, he feels nothing but the chilling sting of the table pressed at his bare back, the needles piercing his flesh, the tube stuffed down his esophagus and the damned tape at his lids.

"So, you've managed to manipulate their genetic response to injury..." He seems confused, his voice trailing as Crona feels this mystery man's eyes boring into him.

"Close~." Doctor Gorgon chimes at the man as she pokes at Crona's ribcage with a gloved finger. "You see, with their long-term subjection to my small doses of both radioactive, shock, hormone and gene therapy, I have been able to chart their different responses."

Clacking of heels upon the floor's surface and a rustling sounds next to the boy, as the man makes a curious grunt.

"...And?"

"You do remember that we created two blonde children, correct?" We? Wait... Could that mean that this man...?

"Their... hair...? You expect me to believe that you were able to hypothesize and create your theory over the change in their hair?" This man is his father?

"You sir," Medusa's drawl lowers, huskily as the sentence rolls from her lips, "are correct. Ragnarok had an odd reaction, it seemed that over time, he became immune to our little tests. The experiments began yielding inconclusive results. But Crona, oh Crona. His skin began creating the acids that I've have been exposing him to, the oils have changed with time, his body's production becoming an adaptable device for the mold. His hair, as you can tell, is not of the classic classification of natural, you could say. It was a perfect indicator that something had gone right."

Doctor Gorgon gives a throaty chuckle that churns Crona's empty stomach.

"What of the other one? Ragnarok, you say you named him...?" Ragnarok! Where is he? Please, let him be okay...

"Oh, him." She hums boredly. "There were changes in the boy, but none that would prove useful to our research. His blood, so fascinating... A liquid with the ability to be both that and solid. One, that once within the veins could harden organs to protect them, making them nearly impenetrable. But, there was a problem." Problem? Crona's eyes burn with tears that threaten to shed, but couldn't. His brother... A problem... No, Ragnarok has to be fine! He has to ... He can't...

"Oh?"

"Well, I've said it before. He never responded to any of our other tests, his body never produced the ability to make that acid or oil... Just the blood. As a result of the blood, while as safe as his organs were when conscious, his flesh was a different story. It was true that he could harden the blood in order to close up lacerations, but in doing that, he was no longer able to truly heal. Normally or otherwise. While in the case of Crona, deep wounds only last an average of two days..." She laughs again, excitedly slapping the boy's side. "Well, you saw! Less than that, now! ...With help..."

The man is chuckling too. It's such an odd detached sound. Scary.

"Enough of this." Medusa purrs deep and airy. "We can converse more over that date you promised."

"I am quite... Famished." Eww. If there wasn't a hose clogging his throat and something in his stomach, Crona would have definitely emptied it. He's seen enough movies and read plenty of literature to know underlying innuendos when he hears them.

"And if you're good, you'll get a special... Dessert." Crona doesn't want to hear this from his own mother.

"I'll tell you all about our other trials, too." That man's voice coos.

"Mmm... I love it when you talk... dirty." Medusa practically moans, making Crona's stomach flip.

"Nnnhmm... Filthy." Their voices are fading into the static, growing more muffled as their steps move farther away. Crona couldn't be more relieved.

That relief quickly vanishes with the realization that he never did hear what happened to his brother.

Ragnarok.

Heavy, so heavy.

He couldn't do anything but lay here if he tried. His appendages, he knows, are strapped down, his hips belted, his neck and head tethered. It's useless.

He can't just lay here. He can't, he can't, he can't! His brother may need him! He may be suffering, alone, somewhere in this house! Crona tries to tense his muscles, focusing on his toes, his fingers... any small motion that could lead to something other than a flaccid useless body.

Ragnarok!

His name sizzles at his insides like an electrical current and once more he hears that voice, clear against the crackling static and fog muffling his brain and ears; so much stronger than before. His imagination is begging to hear that voice in reality, he bets.

"Quit trying to move, you little prick! You'll just hurt yourself. Don't be such a dumbass and calm the fuck down." That voice growls, but it's soft. Concerned. Wow, why would his imagination want him to stop when all he wants to do is find his brother?

"You couldn't do shit anyway. Think about it for a damn second."

Crona's brow is beaded with slick sweat, though he hasn't budged. But, he stops. That voice, imagination-Ragnarok is right, that doesn't mean he likes it.

This room echoes with moaning metal and it's so cold. He's alone, tied to a table helpless, naked, exposed. He can't see, can't move. He's utterly vulnerable.

Destitute.

His heart is hammering, beating with such force against bones that feel like metal rods. It hurts, so much.

Mother, please...

"DAMN IT, CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"

Crona's nasally breaths are coming so quickly, too fast, but there isn't enough oxygen. His face feels funny, it stings, swollen, fat and tight like someone is pulling at it from all angles. His head is spinning in the dark... but he's stationary, right?

"Seriously, cool your shit..." That voice in his head... He misses hearing it with his own ears.

Ragnarok.

Crona's mind quits on him as his breathing slows with a blocked gurgle to deep pants, the noise cuts out, that voice stops as everything merges with the all-encompassing darkness.

~O~O~O~

Maka is miserable.

There is no way that she can think clearly with the sun beating down on her. The shadow is occupied on the far side of the tree trunk and she is so thirsty. Oh, so very thirsty.

Maka's tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, it's difficult to swallow, to breathe. Her lips hurt, ache. They're cracked, chapped, she knows it without having to test them with the tip of her tongue. To do so would only make things worse, she's sure. It's too dry, the appendage is probably like sandpaper.

She keeps eyeing the bench in front of her where a crisp near-full bottle of water is sitting on the wood. Condensation on the outside of the foggy, frosty plastic beading and falling down the smooth surface. Almost in slow motion, it's teasing her.

Taunting her.

Would it be easy just to take it? To slip by and stuff it's cool container in her heated palms... It probably would be.

But there is an issue. Has the owner drank directly from the bottle or did he just pour it in his mouth? Maka used to have a little thing about germs, especially with what's happened to her mother and father. She is pretty desperate, though, and at this point, does it even really matter any more? Everyone treats her like she's diseased already.

Fuck it! This person has two of them, anyway.

She secures the strap of her bag over her head and across her chest, her treasure packed away safely in the folds. Maka creeps forward on her hands and knees with precision, perfect balance. She stands in silence, like a ninja or an upright lioness stalking her pray, her agility is flawless.

Rolling the tips of her shoes into the grass and earth she advances in silence, drawing nearer her target. She crouches behind the back of the bench, her hand outstretched. She can feel the chilled aura of the bottle seducing the tips of her fingers. Her heart is racing, her blood jittering as it floods her veins with every pump.

She snatches it without fault, running as fast as she can in the opposite direction, sweltering wind licking at her cheeks. Soon, Maka has gotten a safe distance, she thinks maybe she could slow down, take a breather and a sip...

Only to collide face first into a frisbee that seemed to have been thrown by the demigod Hercules himself.

A stream of particularly unladylike curses fly from her mouth as she grabs at her forehead, the pilfered water dropping to the ground with the weapon discus. She tries to clear her clenched eyes from the bright white and stars flickering behind her lids with the pressure of her palms.

That fucking hurt!

"Damn it! How am I supposed to school you in this godly game of frisbee golf if bitches keep flocking to me and blocking my throws?!"

Oh no.

Maka's breath catches. She knows that voice and it doesn't bode well that she's in such close proximity. Suddenly, her frisbee injury doesn't seem like such a big deal. It still sucks that it's her face, though.

"Dude..." Someone's moving closer to her... When had she gotten to the ground? "I told you, there isn't a course here. Anyway, I think you really hurt this chick."

Indeed. Maka could feel the swelling and the small cut pulsating beneath her fingers. It's bleeding, much more than she thought it would. That was just a frisbee, right? What the hell? She groans as the lights fade, moving her hands and opening her eyes to test her vision.

The footsteps stop as one of the boys gasp, the other grunts.

"Maka..." Whether her name escaped the white-haired, crimson-eyed male in disbelief, panic, fear or disgust, she's not quite sure. But one thing is certain: he's not coming any closer.

Tears sear at her ducts, but not from pain.

This boy was her best friend, in another life... More than that, actually. In another time where her family wasn't torn to shreds, a time that had passed. A distant memory, left to be forgotten. Much like he had done to her.

"Watch where the fuck you throw this damn thing!" Maka growls, yanking the hard blue thing and tossing it to the sets of feet before her. "People walk here, you know."

They step back before it hits the ground. Neither makes a move to pick it up, they just stare at it like it's going to sprout limbs and wage war on them. It's like a punch to the gut, taking the wind out of her.

So this is how it is? This is how it will always be.

"'Ey! Now hold up! You ran directly into my line of fire!" The other boy snorts, crossing his arms and tossing his bad, frizzled blue dye-job into the scorching wind. "It's not my fault you suck at life."

"Well, to be fair you just kind of launched it without looking, man." Scratching at his cheek, the albino kicks at the ground uncomfortably. "It's not cool to be wreckless, dude. I mean, what if it was an old lady or a kid? Maka is tough, but it's still pretty shitty of you."

"Yeah, well she obviously wasn't paying attention to where she was going either!" Dye-job waves off the blame, pointing a nail-bitten finger in Maka's direction. "For shame! It's not like my arrival is something to ignore!"

Maka's eyes narrow at him, her jaw so tight. She's still stuck stealing glances at the plastic discus on the ground. There are so many things she'd like to say to this asshole. She wants to scream, lash out, blame them both for expanding the frozen crater inside of her. Leaving her empty, cold.

But, she doesn't. It's not actually their fault, right? It's just a misguided attempt at self-preservation, yeah?

She just lets silence settle over them as she studies them, taking them both in with a hardened, scalding glare. The quiescency is stiff and a little awkward.

'Friends' she used to call the arrogant Black Star and laid-back Soul. Maka had known them so well, they had been close in their circle of mutual friends. She grew up with these boys, from playground tears to shy elementary giggles, adolescent crushes and playful banter, amiable competitive rivalry.

These two, she used to be able to share secrets with, crash at their houses for the night if homework-hangouts ran over too late. She's made them lunches and cleaned their respective home cupboards of snack foods.

They've thrown popcorn at annoying sappy couples in movie theaters and had to be escorted out of stores for playing with loud musical toys with 'try me' buttons, unleashing hundreds of bouncy balls from their elastic rope prisons and riding tricycles through the aisles.

They used to laugh until their sides hurt, cry or listen -or both- when one of the others were in pain, be quiet company for each other when they didn't feel like talking.

But now, they are nothing and she is nothing to them.

Strangers.

Soul puts a hand on Black Star's proud -but tense- squared shoulders, looking down at her with those red-eyes gleaming with... something. Concern? Guilt? Shame? Care? He opens his mouth to speak, but honestly that look... it's too much. She cuts him off with her hand.

Shoulders shaking, she bows her head. Maka plucks the cold bottle from the dry grass, just to have something to tuck between both palms as the jolts come faster, harder.

Her snorts and snickers turn into full out laughter. It's not joy, no.

Her rocking guffaws are sarcastic, bitter. Those feelings and memories rattle in the void these boys left her with. It tickles and if possible, that frozen hollowness gets even colder.

It's funny. Oh, so fucking funny!

They stand there staring at her, eyes wide in shock. Just what the hell are they looking at, don't they already know?

She hums to herself as the giggles die down. Maka picks herself up off of the ground, wiping the trail of blood from her forehead and the bridge of her nose, cleaning her hand on the pleat of her skirt. It's fabric is dark, already dirty. It doesn't matter, nothing matters.

Lazily, she ambles toward them. Bending to pick up the frisbee, she tosses it vertically into the air, catching it, just to do it again with a tight-lipped grin. She stops on the last catch, gripping it's edge so hard that her knuckles turn white as she looks up into their eyes. Soul's gaze falls, unable to look at her directly.

"Yeah, anyways...sorry about that." He mumbles to the grass at his shoes, her grin grows as she grinds her teeth. Black Star shakes his odd mane, pointing his flared nostrils skyward.

"Nah... I'm not sorry. Shit happens, but I guess I could forgive you for getting in my way." He chuckles as his face lowers, directed at her, but he's looking at some point behind her. He can't look at her either. Her jaw aches with the force shes placing on it.

"I know I'm awesome, but it's not something that can rub off. It's not contagious." With Black Star's comment Maka's grin falls, but her molars are threatening to crack. Soul throws an elbow into the other male's ribs, laughing awkwardly. Black Star's surprised yelp catches in his throat as he garbles it into something like a cough.

Maka only forces a smirk, quirking a brow as she keeps walking toward them.

"Go screw yourselves." She thrusts the plastic thing into a chest, she's not sure who's, as she keeps on without a second glance. But she hears it fall back to the ground, untouched.

Fuck them.

If friends just abandon and forget you, like everyone else... She doesn't need them. Maka doesn't need anyone. Strangers... That's all they are.

She's already come to terms with this, long ago. Still, it smarts a bit, numbing her more, chilling her further. She barely hears it as she passes through the gates, his voice is so soft, so distant, it can't be much more than a whisper and yet it booms through her head.

"I'm so sorry, Maka."

Her breath hitches as she swallows down a sob and battles the burning of her orbs. Ruby eyes and a sad smile haunt her as she continues on with her routine.

Forsaken, stiff, robotic.

Mechanical. Is she even human anymore?

Maka's feet move absently, passing the wrought iron bars one by one as they showcase the park she's leaving behind in flashes of bright, lively, vibrant hues cut with unforgiving black. Almost like a homemade movie; it's contents once held such beautiful memories, that over time became warped and ultimately forgotten. Sad and destroyed.

There's a screech coming from somewhere in that park, someone yelling something or other about balance and ruin. Maka keeps walking, her mind too occupied with the past and the destruction of her present to give it any real notice.

Ignorance really is not bliss. Especially when it's -unknowingly- used against you. She can't force people to learn; to know that the sins of her father ultimately don't belong to her. That's not something she could broadcast. And if she did...

No one would listen to her, no one would believe her if they did.

No one. She is alone in this.

O~O~O

Crona's nuzzles his cheek deeper into rough fabric as he groggily teeters on the edge of consciousness. His eyes snap open, on a jolt he sits up quickly.

"Too fast." Groaning, he cradles his head in his hands taking measured breaths to combat the dizziness. Crona's lids flutter, lashes fanning his pale cheeks as his vision gradually stabalizes enough to take in himself and his surroundings.

The room is just as cold as the other, but he is clothed; no longer exposed and no longer in pain. It's all gone, as if it were all just an unpleasant dream. How did he get here? When was he moved? Maybe it all was just a dream.

No, it wasn't. It never is, he knows this already; the rest forever remains a mystery.

His crystal orbs scan the sterile room, the other cot is still empty. Breath hitching and heart sinking, Crona's empty stomach turns in knots as he sets his bare feet upon the floor, moving silently over to the vacant bedding.

Running a hand over the canvas, his eyes water. It holds the same chill that permeates the room. No traces of warmth, of disturbance. Ragnarok hasn't been in here at all. Not for a moment. Crona bites his lip to cease it's quiver, sniffling as his head falls and his arms hang limply to his sides.

He's alone.

Faded rose-tinted locks shield his watering eyes as he moves toward the door. He knows to try is in vain, but that doesn't stop him. He's tired of being alone. He could deal with all this when his brother is with him; to keep him calm with his teasing and bullying, his pissy comments and his glares. It's his way and it keeps Crona from over-thinking; keeps him from being lost in his own mind.

Ragnarok gives him focus. Sanity... And now, he's gone. He's been gone, Crona wants to find him. Needs to find him.

He reaches for the knob, thin shaky fingers nudge the icy metal before wrapping them around it, wincing a bit at it's unwelcoming temperature.

He knows it won't turn. It never has, unless Doctor Gorgon was coming in or heading out. She isn't here and he almost hopes that she isn't on the other side of the door. She loves him. Aside from Ragnarok, she is the only one whom he has ever seen. She's a comfort of routine, but...

She scares him.

Her soft words and songs are always before, during, or after pain. When she touches him, it's because she's slicing him open or prodding him with sharp needles; testing him, experimenting on him, exploring his genetic boundaries and forcing her way through them.

When she affirms her love, it's with a sneer and a smirk. Her smiles make his nerves quake.

But she does love him, she has to. He is her son, she tells him she does. If she didn't, would she keep him alive like this, like she has his entire life? The torturous tests are for science and her words are meant to be soft.

She is a constant, his lifeline. He wants to see her all the time, yet, not at all. Her love is painful; absolute agony. It hurts, so much.

Crona takes a deep breath, holding onto it before letting it out in broken spurts as a shiver runs down his spine, his mind goes blank.

The knob turns all the way, a metallic swish indicates that the barrier between he and the rest of the house is movable; able to be conquered by a pull and few steps.

It's absolutely daunting.

He trembles, his knees nearly buckle, they are so weak. Air doesn't seem to fill his lungs with the greedy gulps he's giving in to. But, he hasn't moved. He can't. This... It feels forbidden.

He has to take a moment. Crona's muscles spasm, his digits tighten and loosen. His own weight is crushing against the soles of his naked feet, it makes his body sway with slight vertigo that threatens to take him out.

He thinks of his reason, the person who propels him onward. Straightening up, he wills for clout to carry through.

Ragnarok.

"Fucking do it, already!" That voice is back, egging him on like grumpy cheerleader buzzing in his brain. "It's nipply in here, you're about to create daggers in that man-dress, pussy! Let's get some sun up in this bitch!"

Crona's hands steady as a soft smile spreads across his face, because that's exactly what his brother would say. His own mind startlingly on point. He would laugh a little, but his momentary contentment still doesn't completely erase the sheer terror he feels at leaving this room.

Without permission. Without supervision. Without Ragnarok.

Teeth grit, Crona closes his eyes, respiring wholly as he wills his hand to grab and his arm to pull. Creaking, the door swings open, unleashing a small breeze of more cool air. He cracks open one powder blue orb at a time, holding back a whimper.

The hall before him is long, clean, and absolutely empty. Everything is white. Everything sparkles. Everything smells the same.

Arid, aseptic, fumigated. It stings his nostrils, so he knows the last cleaning was recent. It's like an omen.

Crona takes a cautious step forward, scanning the well-lit passage and it's many doors for any surprises that may jump out at him. Warily, he takes another step forward, gently closing the door behind him.

Slick, yet completely dry, the floors stick to the balls of his feet making a slight peeling sound at every motion, no matter how light. Unnerving, but he presses on.

Reaching for the first door he comes upon to his left, he tries the knob. It jiggles but it won't budge. It's locked.

Crona's brow furrows as his left hand grips his right elbow. For some reason, the temperature is getting to him, biting at his flesh more viciously than any other time in the past. The warmth of his arm, his hand against his own skin is comforting, the pressure of his bony fingers soothing to his nerves.

He goes for the next knob, but hesitates. Goosebumps rise along his forearms up to his neck, his fingers twitch. He sighs and closes the distance. It's locked also.

His face falls, his lips tugging into a deep frown as his vision clouds over with a sheet of unshed tears. Will he ever find his brother? Is he behind one of these doors, a prisoner of both mind and body? Is he...?

Crona gulps, continuing his trek, attempting the handles he comes across with more urgency. His strides are small and awkward, but they are quick and soon there is only one left. The center is glass, only the borders of it a heavy white wood, thick enough for a levered handle.

It opens into more of this large house.

Crona feels so small compared to the expansive corridors before him. He moves onward, timidly, his breath coming in panicked rhythm along with his pounding heart. He grips his arm harder, his nails digging into veins at the crook of his elbow, but with the sting comes his certainty; his resolve.

Nodding once to himself Crona attacks door after door, following the twists and turns of the passage. Backtracking, he tests the others.

None are budging. There are no answers to his whispered calls or knocks. The only thing that keeps him company along this venture is the patter of his feet and the echoes of his own wavering tone.

Some how he makes through two labyrinthine floors and down nearly three flights of slippery-looking, polished stairs without too much incident. Knees wobbling, hands gripping the rails as if they would disappear if he were to remove them, Crona crumbles with an allayed cry shakily breaching the last step. Upon the open ground of sparkling marble, he heaves hollow relieved chuckles between sighs.

How had he never known that he was in an upstairs room? Wouldn't the human body just know that sort of thing? He flattens his damp palms along the frigid floor, praising it for it's solidity with soundless whispers and just enjoying the security of solid, level ground.

Crona's gaze rises once he's certain his balance will hold, his eyes stretching impossibly wide.

This area is so much different than the barren walls of the endless hallways the boy just came from; contradistinct his and Ragnarok's room with nothing but cots, closets, bathroom, touch screen television/electronic book mounted into the wall, all the white... This foyer -he thinks it is called- has furnishings, color.

Oil paintings on canvases the size of the floor in his room are hanging, framed in swirling filligree borders. Landscapes lay suspended on walls perpendicular to eachother as abstract holds alone across the open foyer: an oceanic scene at nightfall, desert at sunset with hues that mere words can not describe, seemingly senseless splatters that makes him feel lost, sad and angry. They fill the walls as sculptures line the floor on glittering ivory pedestals.

Crona has never seen anything like it, it takes his breath away. He has to blink to be sure it's all real.

It's not just antiseptic white. It's real life, not just pixels projected on a screen. All of this is physical, he can reach out and touch each piece if he wants to- but he won't! He'd probably rip something, break something! He couldn't be responsible for the destruction of such beautiful things! That would be terrible!

Crona realizes that his jaw has been hanging so he closes his mouth, gulping furiously, trying to generate enough saliva to lubricate his dry throat. This is almost too much, too quickly. He's still gawking.

Using the railing at the mouth of the steps to support himself, he stands. Stumbling forward, he looks around once more, admiring the art yet again -it's impossible not to- but, that's no longer his focus.

There's one door to his right, though judging from the light beaming through the small semicircle window at the top, it leads to the outside world. While tempting, that's not his goal at the moment.

He has to look for Ragnarok, has to find his brother, has to know whether or not he... Crona shuts his eyes, banishing the thought with a vicious shake of his head... Then he'll investigate outside.

Fingertips running feathery trails along the wall, he follows it into another opened area. There is nothing but seating and tables, a few upholstery items and other sleek furnishings. He pushes off of the wall to stumble past the sitting area, going deeper into the main floor wing. Crona passes through a large opening breaking the other section into this new one.

He has to hold back a loud gasp with his hands, but the deep nasally breath he takes causes him to sneeze. Dust. Something he's never encountered before seems to assault his airways with a vengeance and he is left sputtering less than gracefully beneath this grand entryway, doubled over and leaning against the large threshold.

His eyes water, probably red from irritation, his nose runs. The boy feels disgusting, but the way his lungs seize with his coughing fits, he really can't think of much else.

When his body finally adjusts and his lungs are able to cooperate civilly with the dirty air around him, he wipes the salt from his face and eyes with the back of his hand. Upon seeing it all again, he tries not to make the same mistake, it's hard though.

Large bookcases span the entirety of this room, lit by wall-sized multi-paned windows framing the cloudless blue sky and golden rays streaming across the floors in beautiful translucent pillars. Crona wanders into the center of the room without thought, turning, rotating on his heel to absorb everything about this place.

It's fascinating.

He has never seen a real book before, read plenty, but never the hard physical copy of one. And now, he is surrounded by them. The only thing besides his mother to connect him to the unknown, the endless lines of text... Books exist. They really do. There are more than he knew numbers to count them all.

A bit reluctantly, his legs carry him past it all, toward the next archway. His longing stare following shortly as passes through the curvature to take in an elegant lavish table set with gorgeous dishes and polished silver. Has anyone even eaten in here?

What would it be like, to share a meal with his mother and brother at this table? Crona's brows furrow, his frown deepening eyes glazing over as he follows the curves of the smooth chair backs and exposed table ledge.

Ragnarok would love to do that. He loves food.

Truthfully, Crona isn't the most hungry person in the world, he guesses. A lifetime of broth and bland semi-solids at stretched intervals -in order to coincide with surgery and experiments- has done a toll on his appetite.

To eat means that he has healed. Having healed means that more tests are near.

He blinks away the far-away stare, his hand dropping as he reaches the end of the table. Giving the set up a last glance, he walks on.

There are no doors to try in here, maybe there'll be some in the next? He passes through the opening.

Pots, pans, cooking utensils and appliances meet his curious orbs, all the same color. So much of the same color. Grey, steel grey.

On the countertops, every accessory... Everything. Aside from the the ebony stone flooring. There are two doors here, he walks cautiously to the closest one. It's wood, he thinks. The other is cast in that same metal and the knob is strange. Like a locking latch. It's a bit intimidating.

This one opens with a small creak. Chrome racks holding bags and jars, bottles and sacks are situated neatly around this small den. It holds a smell different than dust and cleaning supplies.

Rich... Spicy.

Crona's stomach protests in a loud growl, he presses his palm to it as if that would quiet it down. It smells so good in here, like nothing his senses have ever experienced before. And for once, he's actually hungry. He wants to eat. If he wasn't petrified of the consequences he would rummage through every container and give it all a curious sample.

The pinkette lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. There's nothing in this room of crucial significance, other than the delicious strange new aroma. Backing out, he bites and sucks on his lower lip attempting to contend with the slaver that continues to flood his mouth.

It's difficult to leave this place when it's smell promises satisfaction. How long has it been since he's eaten? He doesn't even know. Meals themself are never really memorable. Crona sighs sadly, reluctantly closing the door to investigate the other.

Has Ragnarok had the opportunity to smell these things, to explore this house? Was he able to do so before Crona? Did Ragnarok do all these things without Crona? Only remembering bits of his mother and... father's conversation irritates him. He was awake damn it! All that stuck out was his brother's name and that that man was their father, everything else is too fuzzy to understand.

Crona doesn't like the constricting feeling he gets in his chest or the burn that lingers in his throat, but that thought is much better than any of the others he's had.

He tugs the strange latch, the door is heavy and cracks at its seal. Patently the metal entry pulls back at Crona, giving a small struggle before releasing. It's so loud in this room, frosted fans roar to life blowing winds so much colder than that of the rest of the house.

Rolling clouds of freezing fog escape and disappear into the air yet linger in the chamber , Crona lets the place clear so he can see. There is nothing in here except what looks to be frozen foods, netted and bagged, boxed and labled.

A freezer? His mother wouldn't keep Ragnarok in a freezer... Right? He shivers.

Straining his eyes to read the many labels, the boy sighs in relief, a hand to his heart. Letting go of the heavy metal door, it seals back as he walks away. There is still more to see, more to search.

Ragnarok must be here, somewhere... He has to be. He wouldn't just leave Crona. Or, so he hopes. Passing by the copious amounts of steel, he presses onward.

To his right lay a narrow flight of covered stairs going down and to the side of that another open archway that seems to circle back into the artwork foyer; to his left stands an ornate set of stained glass double doors. The sunlight streaming through the colored window leaves splashes of reds and blues, greens and violet along the marble in swirling rays. It's pretty.

It calls to him and the other path... scares him. Such darkness, he's never had to deal with it before. Everything has always been bright unless his eyes were closed.

This is different. Shadows will surround him, he will see them take him in greedily. They will eat him, consume him, surround him. A shudder runs up and down his spine. His steps are stiff, his jaw hurts from the immense pressure he's using to clench it, his teeth feel like, at any moment, they will crack and crumble from it all.

Beneath his grimace, he whimpers.

One by one he takes the steps down, deeper into the unforgiving shadows, plunging himself further into darkness. Sinking, with the steep tread downward into this dry black sea.

One hand is planted firmly along the wall without rails, feeling the surface scratch at his palm as he fights to grip it, descending deeper, further into unlit passage. His other twitches, shaking in front of his body feeling for any obstacle that may arise, meeting empty air.

His fingertips finally graze grainy wood and he almost screams at the contact. Crona's heart beats bruises on the inside of his ribcage as he tries to regulate his breath, clutching the fabric at his chest; deep inhale, drawn exhale.

In, out, in, out.

Feeling around the wood, he searches for a knob, lever, latch, ring... something to open this barrier. Why is it so damn dark?! His finger sinks into a hole surrounded by metal. He freezes.

Just a keyhole? So, does the door open inward or outward? Which is which, at this point?

Crona presses his body along its length, his shoulder and elbow pushing forth most of his weight.

Nothing.

He slams into it with no results, but tries again. Over and over, until his back and blades are bested with knifelike spasms and his muscles feel like jelly.

It doesn't budge, the hinges don't even whine at the blows.

Crona's breathing is labored, harsh, but he has to endure. He can't just give up, can't just give in. "R-Ragnarok?" It's an airy croak, barely audible to even himself. He swallows to wet his throat as he sucks down air with his nose to bring the strength back to his voice.

"Ragnarok? Are.." He pants, "-are you down here?"

Crona presses his ear to the surface, listening intently for any noise, any movement, voices, ...anything besides the rapid beating of his own heart and his ragged respiration.

He waits.

And waits.

The boy closes his eyes, his lips tugging into a quivering frown as hot falls cascade down his cheeks. He slides to the stoney ground, hugging his knees to his chest as he buries his face into the knobby joints.

His sobs feel like jagged ice stabbing him in the chest, his throat growing more raw with every painful yowl.

He can't find his brother.

He can't find Ragnarok.

Either he left him, or...

Crona bites at his lips hard, clamping them shut to cut the sound as his body is wracked with violent jerks sputtering from the pinkette. Is he really alone now? How will he think straight? How will he find reason to smile? How will he stay sane? How can he deal with their mother's tests... her love... without his brother by his side?

His stomach churns as he sniffles, the snot and tears marring his face with salted heat and slime. Crona rises to stumble back on the narrow steps, turning quickly, trying to get back into the light and out of obscurity, to escape the overwhelming darkness.

Empty-handed.

He trips, scraping his shins on the steps' divergence as he slides back down. It stings, but the pain fades almost instantly.

Crona gives up trying to keep upright, he crawls, pawing his way up on his hands, knees and toes. He has more control this way. It seems natural to crawl; ultimately moving through in a constant grovelling state. A pathetic creature, an empty soul.

What is he without his other half? What is he if his brother, a piece to this bisected puzzle, is missing?

Incomplete.

He makes it to the top of the staircase and collapses; his damp, heated cheeks against the cold hard floor, his limbs sprawled out from his sides as the colors dance a static waltz on the floor before him.

So dizzy, his eyes are dull, staring but not really seeing.

"Get the fuck up, shit's embarrassing!" Crona's lip twitches up, a sharp intake of air lifts his limp body momentarily. That voice is back, it's so comforting, even if it isn't real.

Is he losing it? Not surprising.

"Seriously, get the hell up! People walk here, and you've got your fucking baby-face all up in that shit... So, it's like you're rubbing your face in a sea of feet!"

Crona's orbs widen, he quickly pushes himself from the floor, scuttling sideways and wiping his cheeks as if that would change anything. No matter how soothing, how familiar that voice, fake or not, it's got a point. Feet are disgusting. And he just...

Crona shivers, gagging a little as he stands on wobbly legs.

"You probably liked it. You probably have a foot fetish. You'd like to suck on toes and rub them piggies all over that ghost white skin, you fucking perv!" That voice roars, laughing. Crona mulls over those words, they echo through his head. His face is frozen in disgust, horrified.

Then he blinks. Crona feels faint, but his expression falls, mellows and instead a small smile spreads. It's odd; those words turn Crona's stomach and makes him chuckle a bit, too.

Because, that is exactly something his brother would say.

He shakes his head, allowing himself to draw closer to the other door. The air grows warmer the nearer he gets.

He pauses.

Both hands rest on the handles, his pulse is quickening, his innards doing somersaults. This is it, his first taste of direct sunlight, of the atmosphere beyond these walls. Is he ready for such a thing? Is he worthy? Can he handle the enormity that lies on the other side of these doors?

Crona twists and pulls, both doors swinging inwards as he's blasted with a heat that feels like it's melting his entire being; thawing him of the thin layer of ice that has settled over his flesh from years of near-arctic chill.

He goes through the doors, raising his face to the sky taking in as much of the golden light as he can with squinted eyes, the heat radiates. It feels amazing; better than he could have ever imagined sunlight to feel. His skin is absorbing every bit, it's practically buzzing. The warmth tickles at his nerves and tenderly caresses each in turn.

So calming. So comforting. Both draining and energizing, Crona feels like he could go to sleep forever or run until his legs give out on him. Then, he sneezes.

He sneezes again.

And again.

Crona's face is fixed twisted in a mix of a snarl and a yawn; one eye open, one half shut as his irises hover on the verge of rolling back. His mouth is hanging open with lips pulled back baring his teeth as he waits for the next onslaught, ready. The ones before caught him completely off guard, surprising him with each violent yet benign nasal-lung seizure.

But not the next one, he's prepared. He's stanced.

He feels it. It's coming.

It is coming.

He leans his head back, to give him leverage for the unknown.

And... nothing. The sensation fades, leaving him strangely forlorn.

With wary -and annoyed- movements, he lowers his head and corrects his features, to easier take in his surroundings; to finally absorb something he's only read about or seen in movies.

He sneezes.

"Really?!" He growls, but it's more of a childish whine.

Scowling, he braces himself for any more sneak-attacks to his nasal cavities with arms spread wide and knees bolstered for impact. His eyes shift, darting about the large yard of tan and white gravel as if to spot the invisible culprit.

Crona's expression softens as his breath hitches.

In the center of brick-lain circles, small bushes and trees stand proudly, speckling the lawn with emerald and lavender. Fencing raises high at the edges of the property, though spaces in between wood slats allow for his wide crystal gaze to peek through. Buildings and streets lay in front of him, on the other side, spanning the grayscale from light hues to dark.

They are so big, bigger than the large house that he has just come from, though... so dull.

A high pitched yell catches his attention, Crona whips his head around, following the sound to another side of the yard. He approaches quickly, with no mind other than curiousity and the need to investigate. Approaching the grainy fence, he presses as far as he can into the space between slats.

The boy gasps.

There is so much green, he isn't sure if compared to all of the grey, it is even real.

There are vibrant colors too. Yellows, blues, reds, neon green all scattered beyond a row of black bars. But what really catches his eye is the person, a girl, steady walking away from the lively colors. Her hair swishes behind her as her vacant sage orbs stare into the pavement with no interest.

She is the first person he has seen aside from his mother and brother. His heart beats frantically as he watches the way her body moves and hips sway so fluidly, gracefully.

His stomach feels odd, a strange mix of heavy and featherlight. Crona swallows the lump in his throat as she disappears around a corner. He retreats from the fence, feeling the gravel between his toes, prodding the sensitive fleshy bottoms of his feet as he backs away. That one girl's detachment breaking him from his awe of the park in place of wanting to relish in the simplicity around him.

The rocks are so sharp, but the heat from the tiny stones and the sun overhead are nice; it vibrates through his limbs, from ends to core with warmth and even though he's been outside for a little while, it's still spreading, melting him down to his center, ridding the icy chill that has been there his entire life.

It's so nice... Even with an eerie sensation at the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. Crona just brushes it off, not permitting it to ruin this; his first taste of freedom.

Raising his face and palms to the sky, he lets the light caress them as his eyelids flutter down, soaking it in. Allowing the sun to truly kiss his being is invigorating.

No, it's so much more.

"Enjoying yourself, Crona?"

Crona's eyes shoot open, his arms and posture completely fall, blood running cold. So cold, that he shakes. How can it be this cold in such heat?

"Y-Yes, Doctor Gorgon." Nodding, he averts his gaze to the gravel underfoot. It's all he can do to fend off the startled squeak and embarrassing whimper caught in his throat.

"I'm glad to see that you've found your way without losing your bearings." Crunching sounds as the rocks of the lawn are disturbed. Medusa approaches his downcast form smoothly as her eyes narrow and her grin spreads.

"Did you have any issues?" Forced sweet, but her tone doesn't waver. She can practically taste the anxiety emanating from the boy. It's sweet, even sweeter still is that she caused it and she likes that. Fear means power, power equals loyalty.

"No... Not exactly." Crona switches his weight from one foot to the other, trapping his quivering lip between his teeth as he wills for the courage to ask the question weighing on his mind. He can feel her intense stare as it burrows in, terrifying the boy. But, not knowing scares him even more. Inhaling deeply, he raises his crystal orbs to meet golden.

"Is Ragnarok okay?" He breathes the question out, trying desperately to keep eye-contact with his mother.

Her grin grows.

"He seems to be sustaining pleasantly." She hums, looking Crona up and down.

"Which reminds me, it's time to take your vitals and... for you to eat." His stomach lurches as her icy fingers wrap around his arm making his skin crawl, guiding him easily to the open double doors. He doesn't want to go back in there but he doesn't have a choice. His life is what his mother makes of it. Crona's legs carry him obediently behind her.

At least he knows that Ragnarok is alright. His mother wouldn't lie to him.

She loves him... Loves them both.

O~O~O

Rows and rows of houses pass as she walks on, not seeing, not hearing, just thinking.

It wasn't too long ago that those crimson eyes softened around the girl. Back then, that laid-back boy went out of his way to make her laugh, wiped her tears tenderly and kissed her scalp while holding her to his chest.

His heart beat used to speed around her, his cheeks would tint when she would hug him. He stuttered when he tried to ask her out on a date.

Had the blonde have been more observant back then, she would have seen it all for what it was. But, she didn't. She thought that they were just hanging out, like all the other times. Soul even told her that he loved her. Multiple times, in fact. She's said it, too.

... To him, to their friends.

Because she thought she did. Because back then, it wasn't fake to her. At that point in time, it didn't mean what it does now. In the past it meant enduring care, a fondness, a need to be around said person or people. It meant wanting to do anything for a person to secure their well-being, to keep them safe and to protect what you have with them, through both hardships and glory.

But that's not what it really means... No. Hollow. Cold. Empty. Numb... It means abandonment. To be left with nothing, to be forgotten. To rot. It means disease, contagions, death, shame. Love is nothing good.

Subconsciously, she pats the novel in her bag. Whether to remind her of the time she didn't know any better or to comfort the weeping of the lies written in inky text across hundreds of pages beneath her palm. She doesn't know any more.

Maka snorts as she reaches the house. The girl has to duck beneath caution tape and tear the foreclosure notice from the doorframe just to go inside. Again. This time, she doesn't care enough to get rid of it all.

Why does she keep coming back? The only thing that greets her is the protest of the hinges, echoes exaggerating the house's vacancy and the filth. But, in the blonde walks anyway; past the entry, down the hall and into that room with the miniature mattress and dust.

Maka flops down on the lumpy thing, bouncing a bit from her weight, uncapping the stolen water and taking a tiny sip. She needs to learn how to ration better. Swishing the cool fluid through her teeth and over her tongue, she finally swallows.

"Ah!" That little bit was soothing to her tortured throat, she hasn't had cool water in quite some time. Maybe she should steal things more often. The girl needed that and treasure of her efforts are far too satisfying to keep going without.

... It's just a thought to ponder, she doesn't really think she could carry through. It sounded nice though. Recapping the bottle, she lays back, tucking her arms behind her head.

Oh. Sweet. Lord.

Maka's nose wrinkles and she coughs, wheezes and gags. Hurriedly, she moves her arms back down to her sides tightly, waiting for the smell to pass with a paled grimace.

"Mmmhmm!" She grunts. She's made an affirmative decision. Necessities are called such for a reason. Maka wouldn't go without any more. She's had it.

Author's note #2:
In both the raw native cuts of both the anime and manga, a japanese term is used to describe Crona that is not available in many other languages. It is gender-neutral, ambiguous; Crona has been an androgynous character from the start and ALL THE WAY UNTIL THE END. When it is translated, a gender is assigned to make translation easier. That and it's kind of rude to refer to somone as an 'it.'

Some will like to argue about Crona's hips (picture in the manga)... Honestly, that argument is invalid. Have you ever seen a real-life drag-queen? -Side note: not all cross-dressers/drag-queens are gay, btw.- It doesn't even need to be a cross-dresser! Have you looked at a skinny man naked? I know I have. Heh, my husband is one. Ass for days and curves to make a supermodel drop to her knees and ask the powers that be "Why?!" And, I used to frequent gay-clubs, danced with many lady-like men that looked more lady than even myself (ahem, gorgeous example: Google search Andrej Pejic,) helped with make-up and hair for their stage shows... god forbid I touch their outfits, though. So honestly, don't bother. I am a fan of both Crona as male or female (or both/unspecified/neither. I just love the character in general :3)... I just prefer to write the character as a male. ONWARD!