A/N: Hello! This is my first shot as Resbang, and this particular piece was written for the theme 'Rise of the Ashes'. I thought what not better way to write a vanilla, college AU? So this fic is my interpretation of the theme, a story about a second love. This is heavily based off Ao Haru Ride, though it diverges later on. Fans of the manga will recognize some scenes translated into SoMa.

My lovely artists are Sophie (datkaraperson) and Rebecca (Showknight). You can find their art linked from my profile, as well as on Tumblr. In addition, I must thank the most wonderful betas in the world - I'll add acknowledgements at the end. There will be an omake put up in mid January, as well as extended author notes on tumblr.

And without further ado, I present to you my first Resbang fic.

Trigger warnings: Alcohol consumption / implied smut / divorce scenes

I hold on -

[...]

She closed her eyes.

She was in middle school. Twelve. Simpler times and happier days, in a way. Well, she contemplated, maybe not. In her youth, there wasn't as much to think about, no thoughts of money, stress, family troubles. But in its place were other worries – namely, social anxieties born of social pressures.

"Pigtails!" was the first one.

"Fat ankles!" was the next.

"Tiny tits!" was the last, a call so loud that the chattering hallway fell silent. It was as if everyone waited in collective, baited breath. As she took one long inhale through her nose and out through her mouth, she tried to calm the angry tears that threatened to well in her eyes again, to stop the slew of expletives that threatened on the tip of her tongue. She was an honour's student. She had dignity.

But the boy's damned relentless cackles pissed her off the most, a friction that grated on her unlike anything else had ever. Then again, she had grown up with the monkey of a boy, so she should have been more or less used to it. The cause only seemed to slip further from her hands as with every passing year, more creative and colourful insults would fly from the twat and she would be left wondering why she even bothered.

She whirled around on the balls of her feet, stopping dead center and facing his obnoxious blue hair. "Call me all the names you want, Blackstar, but I'm never stooping to your level." She narrowed her eyes as the boy – shorter than her, three times as loud – drew himself to his full (laughable) height and met her own piercing gaze. "And when exactly," she paused for dramatic effect, keeping her voice crisp and scathing, "did you come up with that? I didn't know you had the capacity to come up with the last one."

If Blackstar was offended his face didn't show it, though she couldn't help but entertain the thought that he just didn't quite grasp her own insult. Just as she was congratulating herself on her own genius, the blue-haired buffoon took a step back and another boy took his place.

Soul Evans – he'd moved to their school recently, yet, quick as a flash, had stuck to the other hair-colour freak as if they were opposite polarities. When he'd first walked into the class she was immediately intrigued, for she could see in his sharp red gaze that he was intelligent and good at judging people. She had hoped that, in an school that already had it against her, he might understand her plight.

She had so many questions for him. Was his hair naturally white? Was his skin always tanned? Why were his teeth so sharp?

And yet, as soon as the bell had rung on that fateful day, Blackstar had gotten to him, and she never had the opportunity to ask those questions.

Not that she cared anymore, though, as she shot a glare at the newcomer. "Actually, that one was my idea," he sneered, his voice dripping with pride. She seriously had no idea how she had ever thought he could be anything half decent – for now her opinions of him were so sour that he had almost reached the same level as Blackstar, perhaps worse. Only, in that first day, she could see the loneliness in his eyes, the way his head was held too high and the way his stance was too stiff.

He was still like that, she supposed.

But her sympathy wasn't saved for assholes.

So she rolled her eyes and whirled around. "I have nothing to say to you, Evans."

And when she walked away, there was heat when his eyes followed her, still prickling even when she heard Blackstar nudging his asshole-in-crime.

She wouldn't soon forget the feeling of his gaze.

She found solace in the library, mostly because it was always empty– everyone was too busy going out with friends or rushing home. Those activities weren't anything she was very partial to, and the silence of the library was a nice contrast to the cacophony of the halls. Settling into a chair and leaning her elbows against the wooden desk, she pulled out a book and began to read.

She didn't know how much time had passed. She could get lost in her books forever, but she heard a somewhat nearby chair scoot back before the rather audible sound of someone sitting in it quite deliberately She turned the page, clicking her tongue, trying to refocus her mind back into the sleepy state of reading.

But then she felt the familiar prickle against her skin, along the back of her neck, like a spark trying to ignite a fire. It left trails of warmth crawling up her spine. It, too, was soon unbearable and just as she was getting ready to slam her book down with exasperation, there was the regrettably familiar drawl of his voice.

"So, the nerd also reads… for fun."

"I'm so privileged, to think you would take your time out of your clearly busy day to talk to little old me," she muttered reflexively, more to herself than to him, but she heard his low whistle and she tried once more to bury herself in the comforting black etchings of letters.

She could hear the smirk set on his lips, the way his tongue tasted each word before they came out of his mouth. "Feisty and sarcastic?"

The heat had now spread to her cheeks, pricking like little needles, enticing her temper to flare once more.

She slammed her book down, watching the boy flinch ever-so-slightly as she hissed, "Look, if you're this desperate for attention, at least cry to someone who cares, okay?"

Green stared into red.

For once, he didn't seem smug. More surprised, if not a little offended, but definitely shocked rather than… anything else she was expecting, really. His eyes were wide – and in them was that stupid loneliness that somehow, irrationally, called to her – but she stalked off, leaving Soul Evans in the library, alone.

The second time he showed up in the library, whatever patience she had been slowly regaining throughout the day was all but thrown out the window. When he sat down she promptly stood up, shoved her chair back into the desk with unnecessary force, and moved herself three tables down.

When he rose and took a step towards her, she kicked the adjacent chair in defiance.

Familiar prickles set into her skin once more, and there was the annoyance that she felt when she was around any boy, really, though he was... different. But when she dwelled on the thought, she also saw his wolfish grin. Whatever was brewing in her mind was discarded as she glared back and immediately blocked his vision with the closest thing she could find.

"Really, a dictionary?"

"Shut up," she muttered, her voice coming out higher than she would've liked, and she could've sworn she heard a chuckle before she whacked him with it.

"That hurt, Albarn, what if you gave me a concussion-"

"Stop following me," she hissed back violently, the revelation that even hitting Soul Evans with a god damn book wouldn't make him leave her alone; he'd been following her for the past ten minutes, his voice highly annoying in her ears.

Why, why, of all people, why her? She didn't ask for his attention, didn't want to feel sympathy for him, didn't want to feel this strange anticipation that made her heart race.

She stopped suddenly, almost causing him to bump into her.

"Why are you even following m -" she started, but her voice was cut off by a loud obnoxious war cry as out of nowhere a flash of blue hair clouded her vision. As the buffoon all but bowled over the white-haired boy, she couldn't help but to smirk as the two began to bicker. But then all the play left the shorter kid's body as he turned to her.

"Yo, dude, why you following bookworm?"

She seethed.

Soul shrugged.

"I 'unno dude, she just hit me with a book again-"

"- I did not just hit you with a book!" She couldn't help but to blurt out, "are you going to forget that you keep bothering me-"

" – and now she's not even gonna apologize –"

Mortification shot through her gut. The entirety of the hallway fell silent once more. That stupid feeling of inadequacy – of not being good enough, of not being able to stop her own fights (let alone others), of being the only one who seemed like they cared about their future – bubbled up and threatened tears in the back of her eyes. She swallowed, feeling that watery lump in her throat, her hands numb but her neck and cheeks blazing. "I – I'm sorry," she mumbled, or more choked, as the words tumbled clumsily from her mouth. Whilst Blackstar didn't seem to hear, she saw the other boy stiffen. Trying to blink back the moisture gathering in her eyes, she lifted her head slowly.

They locked eyes once more.

And just the shock of eyes so red – though she was too drained to even attempt to read his expression – was enough to send her over the edge. She swallowed thickly, trying not to allow her emotions cloud her judgment, and her instincts screamed at her to run.

So run she did, back to the library, back to her solace, her sanctuary, and as she let the door swing shut behind her, she wiped the angry tears from her eyes. She slumped against the wall, the feeling of the cold concrete soothing against her heated and flustered body.

She didn't know how long she sat there, but when her vision refocused she could make out his red pants.

"What do you want?" she muttered. Her voice had long since recovered from whatever that was earlier, strong and defiant once more.

He dropped, crouching, balancing delicately on his haunches as he peered around the bangs that had fallen into her eyes. It was somehow touching, almost fragile, but as soon as their eyes met, it was fire.

"I went too far this time."

"You did," she responded stiffly. Soul chuckled, but his eyes – his brilliant red eyes – were still lonely, she realized, something she hadn't quite yet placed and had chosen to forget about.

But that was something she did; she chose to forget certain things.

Like the way he had first glanced at her, before anyone else, as he sat down on the chair a few tables away from her. Or the times he had walked past her, his hand brushing against the small of her back, before he'd turn around and throw some kind of insult at her. Perhaps he had been sending signals that she just didn't care to acknowledge – a hereditary trait, she assumed as she sighed. "You just brought up something I'd rather forget," she murmured.

She winced at the unconscious show of vulnerability. Knowing him, he would take this opportunity to pick her apart.

But maybe it was because he was feeling sentimental after already hurting her. Her, who after all, had endured months of relentless teasing before he transferred into the school. Maybe it was the library – her sanctuary - that was guarding and protecting her from being harmed.

Or maybe it was the atmosphere; they were so alive in their solitude that every time he shifted – when his hair moved, his lips twitched – she could feel her body responding, as naturally as breathing, a simple cause and effect.

But his expression softened – ever so slightly, but it softened – as he stretched and stood up. "I know the feeling," he whispered, his words so quiet they were almost lost to her. She followed his lead and stood, questions suddenly burning on her tongue, but before she could even begin, he turned around and – for the first time – left her behind.

Loneliness burned in her stomach.

She was certain he felt it, too.

The next few days passed without incident, as he seemingly had no inclination towards acknowledging what had transpired between them.

Though his eye would catch hers.

And when he and buffoon-boy would gang up on her, his words felt half-hearted.

They certainly deflected off her that way.

But as she sat at her desk, opening her lunch, she heard the chair across from her scoot back.

Déjà vu crossed her mind but she ignored it, only taking apart her meal. His drawl was unmistakable, though, and his chair squeaked as he leaned forward. "Gonna ignore me again?"

"Hello, Evans," she muttered, breaking apart her chopsticks.

"Your lunch doesn't look very appetizing."

"That's because I made it myself," she shot back, yet somehow she didn't feel nearly as offended as her tone might've implied. Whatever hostility she felt was overshadowed by the weird sparks dancing along her spine, along with a bit of melancholy. He pulled out a sandwich, in any case, taking a bite of it and chewing slowly. She rolled her eyes and picked up a small sausage between her chopsticks. "Why," she gestured to the bread in his hand, "you make that?"

He paused mid-chew and she could tell he was thinking hard about the response – which was a little ridiculous, she thought, as it was a simple question – but he swallowed and shrugged. "In a sense. But I don't know many people who make their own lunches."

"I would buy, but Mama told Papa to stop giving me money whenever I ask," she responded deftly as she placed the meat on top of the rice box and began instead to roll one grain around. "And, well, Mama leaves right away so…" she trailed off. At the silence, she took the opportunity to stick the sausage in her mouth.

He opened his mouth to say something, but yet again, he was cut off as the door slammed open. "Yo Soul, me, Liz, and Tsubaki are going to the store. Wanna come?"

The white-haired boy paused, glancing down at his sandwich. Just go already, she thought aggressively, but when his eyes flashed to hers, they maintained contact for more than a few seconds before they softened apologetically. "Ya."

He lowered his voice and leaned in. As he did, she could make out hints of his collar bone, the faint aroma of his neck, and she couldn't help but blush, the prickles on her neck more poignant than before. "Wanna come?" he asked, his breath smelled like jam, she noted, though somehow also a little minty.

But she blinked as the blue-haired buffoon stomped his legs once more. "DUDE," he said louder, smacking the wall in his impatience. So she shook her head instead; he shrugged and pushed the chair back where he found it. He gave her a small upturn of his lips before he whisked away as well.

She sat there, picking at her rice. Maybe she did want to go. A little. She felt a bit of jealousy too – if not, maybe admiration – for the boy whose eyes looked like hers. He was at least able to function, act social, slide a mask on to hide his pain.

She took another bite.

Back to the library it was, then.

She didn't know why he kept showing up at in her sanctuary. It wasn't even that he was coming, it was the fact that he'd appear when she would. Granted, she always visited the Library on Tuesday afternoons – for that was when Papa got off work early, and Fridays – when her Mama would have the day off. And soon she, unwillingly, found herself in his company – sometimes he'd ask her a few questions, but otherwise he'd be silent.

Their fingers would brush, sometimes their gazes would catch, but they'd always look away: she'd play with the corner of her page, he'd rub the back of his neck.

She even forgot that she had seen him as an asshole.

It was a long time ago, it seemed.

This particular Friday was unlike the others, the difference being that it was the Friday before their Christmas break. As they sat, she could feel him buzzing – rather impatient, for once, and as she rubbed the corner of her book silently, his voice interrupted her mid page-flip.

"So, the break is coming soon."

"It is," she replied patiently.

He twiddled his thumbs.

"You uh… wanna, meet up some time?"

She closed her book.

He swallowed, desperately trying to maintain his cool, but the panic danced in his red eyes. "Ah, I mean, we could meet up with Kim -" as she felt a bit of distaste bubble at the thought of the blonde, he quickly amended, "- or Liz, you know, just to hang out – get you out of the house."

The last few words hung like a dark cloud on a sunny day.

She smiled. This boy, this boy whose eyes seemed to reflect her very own soul, knew. Or maybe he didn't, but she knew they had a connection, whether it was the friction they felt when they were at home, or the pretenses they kept while they were in class. Here, it was like there were no barriers. Their private sanctuary – though maybe he preferred a burger joint, as she often saw him eat one during lunch – and she could feel his sudden youthful eagerness as he awaited her response.

"I'd like that," she murmured, and she almost missed the complete elation in his eyes.

Almost.

But when the date they had decided on rolled around the corner, she wasn't waiting for him at the bridge, under the clock tower, like she'd promised.

She was in a car, watching the lights blur by, the song on the radio nothing but white noise as she leaned against the window, trying to stem the tears that were rolling down her cheeks.

"Maka, honey, we agreed to this." Her mother's voice was gentle, bracing, but cold to her ears.

She couldn't find the strength in her to continue the fight that she had, at first, been excluded from, but then forced into. She couldn't find her voice that she had yelled hoarse during the past three days. She couldn't even hiccup, for when she almost did she felt a throbbing in her throat, a sharp reminder of the escalating argument that had surmounted in the signing of papers and the slamming of doors.

It was raining outside, she noted.

Was it raining back in Death City?

She rubbed her eyes again, ignoring the rhythmic rattles of suitcases in the trunk. She wanted to tell herself she was smart – she was strong. She knew rationally she wasn't leaving much behind. After all, what had her life been like up until now? Studying, studying, studying. Ignoring the yelling. Ignoring the tears. Ignoring the catcalls. Staying longer and longer in the library, shut away from the world and away from her reality.

But there was a spark – a boy. One who'd rubbed her the wrong way at first, but, like the scrapping of flint, managed to ignite her heart. Soul. Soul Evans - whose bright red eyes breathed life into her, whose presence would keep her company in the library. Soul - who would send tingles shivering up her spine when their eyes caught, when he smiled, when his fingers brushed against hers – his twitching as if itching to hold her own.

She liked him.

She liked him.

She liked him.

But they never were anything. Nothing ever happened between them. Maybe he wasn't even waiting for her at that bridge, checking his watch, growing more worried with every passing second.

Her shoulders shook, her sobs voiceless as she felt them wrack her body again and again.

It was going to be okay - she would cry today, tomorrow, for the next week, even.

But her tears would dry.

And, eventually, it would be sunny again.

And it was sunny, back in Death City.

Maka Albarn, twenty years old, opened her eyes.