*Thank you to the kind anon who so delicately pointed out my error. You know who you are.*

It was a routine she had established since the day she first stepped onto Shibusen College's campus as a full time student. Every morning, she got up at 7 on the dot, brushed her teeth, pulled her hair back into her signature pigtails, and slid into whatever outfit suited her fancy, usually a plaid skirt, a white v-neck, and a pair of black boots that that loved her toned calves.

She left home at exactly 7:20 every morning and arrived on campus at 7:55. Once she arrived at the prestigious college's dining hall, she would sit in the same booth, eat the same eggs, oatmeal, and pancakes, (She was a runner, okay? She needed the carbs.) drink the same vanilla latte, and read whatever novel she was engrossed in that week. It was predictable, but it was stable and precise, and those were things that Maka valued beyond measure. So, naturally, when she encountered early morning bumper to bumper traffic because of an accident at the intersection in front of Shibusen, she was a little more than perturbed.

"Come on, dammit, get a move on!" She still had an hour and a half until her first class started, but she enjoyed the silence of the dining hall in the morning, the beauty of it fully appreciated as the sun made its ascent, tossing brilliant rays through the lofty windows. She also enjoyed sticking to her schedule; if she didn't, her entire day would be thrown off.

When she finally cleared the intersection, grimacing when she passed the wreckage but chuckling when a blue-haired youth nearly turned purple from choking down his rage in the face of a doe-eyed beauty with long black hair, she sped onto campus and swung into the parking deck, noting that her usual spot was occupied by an orange motorcycle. "Of all the ugly colors for such a ridiculous vehicle…" Slamming her door, Maka sped toward the commons, biting her lip when she noticed the time. "I still have a little over an hour, it'll be-you've got to be kidding." Maka pulled up, books pressed indignantly to her chest, an unmistakable scowl marring her features when she absorbed a crop of stark white occupying her booth.

"Um, excuse me." She mustered the sweetest, most innocent tone and smile she could at 8:17am on a day like this. She swallowed when deep crimson rose to meet glittering jade, the frustrated scowl on the other's lips just as deep as her own.

"Yeah, what?"

"W-well-" She never got nervous like this around anyone, much less an obviously rude guy like this one, but there was something about his piercing gaze, despite the dark bags that outlined his brilliant irises… "It's just that…well, I normally sit here. It's like, a routine, I guess, so-"

"No."

She felt her entire body heat up. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'no.' I'm not going to move all this crap just because some girl I don't even know sits here every day. Besides, it's not good to follow a set pattern all the time. It's too predictable. Some creep could catch on and-"

"Of all the insufferable-"

"Oh don't start. It's one seat. If you want it so bad, there's plenty of room on the OTHER bench." He gestured roughly to the opposite side of the booth which was, in fact, vacant, compared to his side which was overflowing with books and lined paper, the latter causing her to raise a brow. It wasn't standard notebook paper; the lines were black and- She blinked when she suddenly found him staring at her. "I'm not moving. Glaring at me won't make me change my mind."

"I-" Screwing up her features, Maka reluctantly sat, depositing her own books and backpack before she rose again to get her food. When she returned, she found the rather hostile boy immersed in his work, bent over the strange sheets with startling ferocity. After an unbearably awkward silence, she commented, "Black coffee and eggs, huh?"

"Breakfast of champions." He muttered, never lifting his eyes from the page in front of him.

"Yeah…" Cramming her fork into a pile of scrambled egg, she filled her cheeks and snatched the text on the top of her pile which, sadly, ended up being her music theory textbook.

Maka Albarn had graduated from high school as her class valedictorian (much to the chagrin of her long time rival, Ox Ford. She'd beaten him by a one hundredth of a GPA point, but she still rubbed it in his face to that day.) She was the captain and star of the cross country and track teams, taking state and even national titles from her sophomore year all the way through graduation. She was a black belt in 3 different martial art forms, and had served as student body vice president (Kidd was better suited for presidential duties.), but she couldn't play an instrument to save her life.

She just didn't get music. She'd never "gotten" music. It just didn't make sense to her. A combination of air waves moving at different frequencies…She could understand songs. Songs had lyrics, and lyrics had meanings, whether superficial or deeply provoking. Music itself though….She just didn't get it. Many frowned upon her preference for synthetic rhythms and tones, but it was what made sense to her. Sighing, she slapped open the thick volume and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her.

TIME SIGNATURES

The bold, black characters declared. Apparently there were multiple types. 4/4, 3/4, 6/8….Those she understood the theory of. They were like fractions. 4 beats per measure, the one fourth, or quarter, note gets the beat, a simple enough concept to memorize and regurgitate. Actually counting them out and keeping a steady beat…not so much.

Exercise 1.6: Tap out a steady 4/4 beat. Any surface or instrument will do, just remember: keep it steady.

Glancing across the table, Maka tentatively laid her hand across her thigh, softly chanting 1-2-3-4 to herself before she began to pat out the rhythm. 1-2-3-4 1-2…3-4 1…2-3…4

"Do you mind?"

She visibly started when his coarse tone sliced through her concentration. "What?"

"I'm trying to work and you're over there making sloppy rhythms."

"Excuse you." She bit off. "I'm working, too! This is-" Before she could finish, he flipped up the cover of her textbook, a vicious smirk overtaking his lips.

"Intro to music theory, level one? Beginners? Are you serious? I didn't even think they had a level this basic in college."

"W-well some of us started later-"

"You don't know anything about music, do you? And I bet you didn't even want to take the class. It was one of those bs required courses. Music appreciation, right?" She was speechless. "It's obvious." He snickered, releasing her book cover with a sadistically satisfied flourish, turning to pack up his own books and papers.

"Oh yeah, well what do you know about music?"

"Plenty. A crap ton more than you."

"Well…then…" Don't do anything you'll regret, Maka. "Why don't you teach me a thing or two, Mr. Expert?" Like that. She didn't even know this guy-

"Can't."

After all that- "Why the hell not?!"

"Class." He grinned wickedly, tossing his backpack over his shoulder and striding out of the hall. "And by the way," He called back. "The name's Evans, not Expert."

"Of all the gall…" Tossing her music text aside, Maka scooped up her Honors Literature textbook and dove into the world of Hemingway, the wrinkle in her forehead smoothing out with each word.

"Damn." Maka sighed at her professor's comments on her attempt at a composition. "He's brutal-" She stopped short in front of the scarlet booth, her jaw setting immediately. "Well, this feels familiar…"

"Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"You actually eat lunch here, too?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing. Just remember what I said about predictability."

"What about you? You're here again!"

"Just for today."

Scoffing, Maka threw herself into the seat across from him, running her fingers through her hair as the bold "Needs major improvement." leered at her from the page.

"What're you so worked up about?"

"Nothing." She stuffed the paper into her backpack, quickly pulling out her lit book.

Now it was his turn to scoff.

"What?"

"Literature?"

"What about it?"

"Nothing. I just should've known you were a bookworm."

"Makaaaaaa-"

"Hey, what the-"

"CHOP!"

"OW! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

"What's wrong with reading?!"

"Nothing at all, if you like being a nerdy, granny-panty-wearing bore…who abuses other people with her love of liter- ow, that hurt!"

"That's what you get…" She mumbled.

"Damn, you're a crazy bi-Never mind." He clamped his jaw when he noticed her arm rising again. The blonde grit her teeth and flipped to Yeats, her shoulders relaxing as she read her stresses away.

"You're like a totally different person when you're reading, you know." He said after a while.

She lifted her eyes, her face still tilted toward the anthology. "Thanks, I guess? Weird way to start a conversation."

"Just an observation."

"How am I so different?"

"Hard to explain. Don't wanna look like an ignorant idiot in front of a bookworm, so I'll tell you when I have the right words."

"Assuming we're still alive by then."

"Hey!"

She giggled. Each turned back to their work, the air between them just a bit less strained than before.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

Maka grinned just a bit as the albino slid into the booth across from her. What started as an obnoxious encounter turned into a daily ritual of sorts, a new routine that she wasn't sure was really all that bad. They ate breakfast and lunch together. Sometimes she'd arrive and find him bent cursing to himself over what she'd finally realized was blank staves on sheet music. Sometimes he'd stroll up and have to greet her multiple times to pull her from her literary reverie. Some days they didn't say anything at all, just slid onto their respective benches and set to work, eating quietly while shooting fleeting glances at the other. Today was one of those rare occasions on which they actually exchanged more than a terse greeting.

"What's wrong?"

The albino scowled, tossing his books onto the bench. "This bs essay I have to write for history. What's the point? It's the past. It's done. Rehashing history is probably what makes it repeat itself."

"In the words of Faulkner: 'The past is never dead. It's not even past.'"

"Tch." He grunted and dramatically slapped his history notes on the table. "But it's so boring. It's the same damn thing over and over. Someone does something stupid and starts a war. One country conquers another. Some crazy illness spreads and kills everyone. It's the same thing."

"You have a point there." She said thoughtfully. "But it's still important to learn about and from the past. Some people have."

"What's past should stay that way." He muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. So, literature, again?"

"Yup. We're studying mythology this time."

"Cool. And how's that music class going?" He sniggered.

"Not so great." She confessed, having given up trying to hide her musical iniquities from him weeks ago. He could read her better than she was completely comfortable with, but something about someone who understood her was….refreshing. "I mean, I've aced all of the theory exams, but…he's had us write three compositions so far…and I failed all of them." She grumbled.

"Damn." He sobered. "You know, I can help you out if you're really struggling that much."

"Really?" She perked up a bit, hope shining in her eyes. She wasn't exactly sure how skilled he was with music, but she did know he was in one of the highest music classes the college offered, as a freshman, too. That counted for something, right? "That would be amazing! We could do it during breakfast or lunch, and-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, bookworm." He raised his hands in surrender when her fingers pinched the spine of her Lit. text. "Not for free. My price isn't too hefty though."

Maka frowned. Just like a boy to-

"It's just…" His gaze fell. "A date."

She blinked. "What? Are you serious? That's so…cheesy." She chortled.

"Yeah, well." She noticed with slight puzzlement that his tan cheeks had taken on a rosy tint. "So…do we have a deal?"

"I think the terms are acceptable."

"Cool."