3:07 am.

School started in a little over four hours. She had only gotten two hours of sleep so far. She needed at least six (maybe even seven) just to function, never mind doing actual couldn't keep enduring this every night. Each night, for the past week and a half, she had lain in her bed and listened, just listened, to him cry.

She tried to avoid it by going to bed earlier than him, but that didn't help because she always woke up at 11 pm (more or less) to go to the bathroom. It was amazing, the way her body had conditioned itself. Try as she might, she couldn't break the habit, so, each night, she got up, and each night she lay back down to the tune of the whimpers on the other side of the wall. She wanted to know what could possibly move such a boy to that kind of state. The boy on the other side of the wall was strong, confident, carefree….or at least, that's what she'd thought. Until this incident started. Really, though, this peculiar behavior truly began far before this particular happenstance.

Two weeks before, he had come home, his eyes puffy, looking more exhausted and spent than she'd ever seen him. When she tried to ask him what was wrong, instead of brushing it off with a tired grin like he normally did, he had exploded on her, screaming and cursing and angry with her for bringing it up. Once he caught himself, though, he had mumbled an apology and shuffled into his bedroom, where he remained for the rest of that night. And the next, too. After that, he had been so careful to avoid her, in the halls, in their classes, at lunch, and even in their very own apartment! She couldn't understand why he was being so purposefully detached, but she realized that, since he was not one who was prone to folly, there must have been meaning to his madness. So, she simply existed, allowing him his space as he needed it. She figured it was best to let him have it, but she still couldn't help wondering what on earth had shaken him up so badly…

Three weeks.

Insomnia, exhaustion, and stress had been her life for the past three weeks, but she still couldn't bring herself to confront him. What if he exploded again?What if, this time, he cracked and broke down? She didn't know if she could handle that. He had always been the strong one, her stronghold, her foundation, and if he crumbled, where would that get her?

No, she would just have to let this issue resolve itself, and fast.

She just hoped it would all smooth out before the creases became marring…

It was a rather bleak Friday evening, the night that it all came crashing down.

She was home by herself, which wasn't unusual by any means. He liked to go out with that idiot best friend of his, playing pool, seeing stupid movies, gambling, or, more often than not, drinking. Amazingly, he never came back drunk. He drank, to be sure, because his breath usually reeked of alcohol, but somehow he managed to stay sober.

Usually.

The front door squealed open a little past midnight.

She was in her room, sprawled on her bed and engrossed in a thick volume, so she hardly heard a thing when he entered. She most likely wouldn't have even known he was home, but it seems fate had other plans in mind. She had only just turned the page when a sudden crash reached her ears. Springing to her feet in alarm, she dashed to her bedroom door, whipped it open, and gaped at the sight before her. He was bent over, palms coated in blood; the transparent vase she had only just purchased from a little store down town, which she had bought with her own money, was shattered on the floor. His eyes, as wide as her own, stared at her, transfixed with blatant horror and shock, as if he, too, could not believe what had just come to pass.

Being the first to recover herself, she carefully stepped to him, pushing down any rage or frustration bubbling within her, and whispered, "Are…are you okay?" Her sensitive nose detected the nearly overpowering stench of drink.

He turned to her, obviously stunned by the fact that she wasn't murdering him right then and right there, and tried to answer, but as soon as he opened his mouth, his eyes flooded with tears and his throat seemed to constrict, for only a choked "N-No." escaped from between his lips. Leaving him with a sad smile and a request for him to sit, she hastened to the bathroom and returned moments later with anti-septic, a pair of tweezers, a roll of gauze, and some wet wash cloths. When she returned, he was on the floor, hunched over, his bangs shielding his face and his hands limp in his lap. Carefully cradling his hand in her own, she gently began to pull a couple of minuscule shards of glass from his palm, and, once both palms were picked clean, she took to the task of wiping the crimson from his hands, occasionally glancing into his distressed features. Finally having cleaned up her shaken partner, the technician made quick work of his shredded hands, carefully enveloping them in the soft gauze.

Once her work was complete, she put away her supplies, but when she sat next to him again, she realized with a start that tears had somehow made their way down his cheeks and onto his jeans, leaving discolored puddles and rosy blotches in their wake. Smiling wearily, she tentatively laid a hand on his arm, noting with a more than a bit of alarm that he was trembling. A bulky hand came to rest on top of hers, trying its best to give it a grateful squeeze as she rubbed his arm. Suddenly acting more on impulse than anything, the meister slid an arm around her weapon's shoulders, coaxing him toward her with surprisingly little resistance. She felt her heart flutter as his head came to rest on her shoulder, a hiccuping sob escaping his lips as he leaned into her, finally, willfully, using her as the crutch that she was completely willing to be. Her fingers found their way into his silvery locks, softly stroking them and massaging his scalp, their typical remedy for when he had a headache, or just needed to relax. They remained this way for a little while, until his cries finally died out and his breaths became even.

It seemed like ages passed before he finally sighed and whispered, in a barely audible, slightly slurred, tone, "Thank you, Maka."

"Mmm." She grunted in reply, her jade eyes lost in thought.

"I'm sorry I've been keeping you awake." He interjected so suddenly that she nearly jumped.

"I-uh," she stuttered idiotically. "It's…okay."

He snorted, raising his head from her shoulder, only to cradle it in his mummified hands.

"No, it's not okay, Maka. It's not okay at all for you to lose a month's worth of sleep because of my stupidity."

Her eyes darted toward him, and she wondered just how much he knew about the past month.

Sensing her amazement, he chastised her. "It was easy enough to tell, Maka. You wear exhaustion like a mask. It's all over your face."

Blushing a bit, she felt an unexpected, but sadly characteristic, rage well up inside of her. "Well, that wouldn't have happened and you wouldn't have to feel guilty if you have just told me what was going on!"

Chuckling at her obvious obliviousness, he retorted, "You never asked."

"Yes, I did!" She cried, indignant. "When you first came home a month ago! Remember? You blew up at me! Jeez, Soul, I mean, I know you and Black Star like to have a good time, but you really could control yourselves-"

"You really think that?!" His head shot up and turned sharply toward his, crimson eyes flashing dangerously. "You think I stayed out drinking or partying with Black Star?! Hell, I wish I had been! Would've been a helluva lot better than where I WAS!"

"Well then, where WERE you?"

He paused, and then mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

"What?"

"I SAID I WAS AT A DAMN CEMETERY, OKAY?!"

She gawked.

"But…why? What happened?! Who-"

"Wes."

Her body went rigid, but her mind spun relentlessly.

Wes? Who was Wes? He had never told her about a Wes before…

"Wes was my older brother. Let's just say, I was in a pretty rough spot back home, before I moved here to start my weapon training. My parents…Wes was the perfect kid. Smart, handsome, talented. So talented. God, he was so talented…" He trailed off, his eyes misting over.

"It was our mom's birthday." He continued. "Wes really wanted me to try to get along with her, so he suggested that I should get her a present, and he said he'd help me pick it out. So, that's what we did. We went to this little hand-blown glass shop in our hometown and picked out this vase…" He stopped, his glance suddenly flickering toward the remains of their own vase. "Anyway…it was raining, pouring, and it was hard for Wes to see, and we were fighting. I think he took a wrong turn, and I was really pissed at him because I just wanted to get home, and before we knew it, he lost control. The car was spinning so fast and it was so loud..." Tremors wracked through his body as he attempted to choke back a sob. "The…the car landed in a ditch, on Wes's side. Somehow, I made it out alive. My parents blamed my freaky weapon blood, but Wes…"

"Oh, Death, Soul," She whispered when he didn't go on. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea…"

"It's not your fault. It's not like you could have known."

Suddenly, her eyes widened in revelation, and the image of a certain motorcycle flashing across her mind. "So that's why-"

"Maka?" She jerked her gaze in his direction and realized that he was staring at her, a puzzled expression plastered across his features. She instantly regretted that he worried about her so much, especially right now.

Coughing a few times, he took her hand in between his gauzed lumps and looked her in the eyes. "Thank you, Maka, for everything."

"Of course, Soul." She replied earnestly.

He threw her a weary, but (as always) crooked, grin and hauled himself from the carpet.

"Man, I'm exhausted." He breathed, trying to rub his eyes. "I'm gonna hit the sack. Night, Maka," He mumbled, sending her a small, sincere smile before he departed for his room.

Remaining on the floor for a few moments longer, Maka beamed faintly and closed her eyes, silently ecstatic at the prospect of both of them getting a good night's sleep for the first time in such a long time.