Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Other real-life stuff and references to other Anime/manga things... I don't own those either... The Harry Potter series and it's characters belong to J.K. Rowling, iocaine powder from Princess Bride(Rob Reiner and William Goldman)[[only used because I felt paranoid searching for 'deadly poisons that are practically untraceable' on the internet...]] and 'Every Me and Every You' is Placebo's. M'Kay?

Chapter 4:

A stream of pale yellow light pours into the tight hall as Soul opens the door to his apartment. It slides back to shadowy darkness as the barrier clicks shut behind the albino who steps in slowly, stripping off his zippered gold and black patched jacket, leaving the layer on the floor in his wake. Heading over, with nothing but the need to lounge on the blocky pillowed couch in the center of the dimmed room, he stumbles few times, mostly over forgotten bagatelle. It's burgundy buttoned stitching whines mutely under his weight as he plops himself down on the sofa's surface, cushions molding around his frame in a memorized hug, he sinks deeply into it's soft crevice, but doesn't care much as he rubs his palms over foggy, aching eyes and runs fingers through his downy, snow mane, a resigned sigh painting the still air.

Soul's mind is tired of running through the same scenario. If the whipping wind and a ride through the city's streets couldn't wipe the thoughts from his mind, the boy isn't too sure what will... If anything at all. The past is already written and his rights to speak have long passed. It won't change no matter how much he thinks about what more he should have done, the lingering 'what if's, he never would have thought of that shit on the fly anyway.

o.o.o

"My money is good, just like everyone else's! You can't be fucking serious!" Raising volume, pissed and desperate from the hushed rasps that the words used to be, a female voice cuts through the busy eatery, causing some to stop mid-bite in order to listen in with sly sideways glances and perked ears.

This girl wants the hostess' attention. Well, she got it, along with that of curious auditory assiduity curtained beneath achromic strands. Taking sweet time chewing, he listens in, fiddling with his napkin and wiping stray juices from his rounded face.

"Miss, you need to leave-"

"I don't need to do a god damn thing! I just want to eat!"

The albino tilts his head and leans slightly from the red pleather-upholstered booth to peer over at the commotion with squinted blood-tinted gaze, chrome-like trim makes it hard to focus as it reflects the obnoxiously luminous pin-lights from the low popcorn ceiling above, but he strains to look anyway. They widen immediately as he takes in the two, arguing back and forth. One in the wrong and the other defending her position, though to define which role is which is a fruitless task.

One thing is for sure, there is no mistaking it. That is Maka up there, trying desperately just to get a it been this hard for her the whole time? Is this just one of many struggles? Soul swallows the soggy mess in his mouth, harder than necessary, he sputters for air as his uncomfortably full gullet seizes mercilessly, trying to force the sustanence down and air in, or out... out mostly. Grabbing his stained crumpled napkin, he brings a balled fist to hush the outburst, finally finding some relief with one wet, heavy hack.

His chest aches looking on through struggle-watered eyes, but it isn't from the lump's descent... It's from so much more. Seeing this girl brings back so many memories, so much good that it physically pains Soul to reminisce. Because the boy left her.

His affections could never amount to the pressure placed on him from everyone else. He loves her, fucking loves the chick but... she's got things that he can't contract. He has a reputation to uphold, goals to achieve... Only just having gained some recognition from his own parents, brother, with the acceptance of his pre-screening performance application to the University of Rochester and formal invitation for a campus audition, Soul just... He can't... He just can't risk it.

His chest constricts further and he fights the wince with a sharp bite to his inner cheek. The albino's heart screams for the girl's presence, beats only for that next glimpse of pig-tailed blonde that may or may not be her, but his skin crawls at the all of the possibilities and his mind nearly shuts down with all the moral, ethical, and emotional conflicts. Every fiber of his staunch body is at combat, the snow-tressed teen's squeam is caught dead-center this treacherous tug-of-war, threatening to be torn beyond repair.

She had goals, too. Had succesfully acheived scholarship and acceptance into many universities even before the middle of senior year came about. Maka is the one that helped him study for his tests, pushed the boy to apply for more than one musically centralized college, pressed 'record' for his pre-screen tapes... Tasting the twang of copper and earth, he releases the bloodied meat of his cheek, gritting pointed ivories, they grind against each other with the pressure.

"Then I suggest you go somewhere else. We have the right to refuse services to those that may hinder business and you just so happen to fit right into that category." The flustered hostess tucks some loose, messy chestnut hair behind her ear as she stiffly makes her way to the entrance, expectantly holding open the door. "If you don't leave, I will have to call the police and have you removed by force."

Maka tries to bite back the giggles, but they rasp rudely past pressed lips and she gives in, throwing her head back, laughter bouncing off the walls filling the whole of the small diner. It's almost like she's having a seizure, the girl is shaking so violently from it. When she finally stops, wiping the wet from her eyes, sighing an oddly airy sound, a tight smile stretches across her reddened anyone else, she probably looks like a maniac. Anyone else would think she wanted that reaction, the way every one cowers from her... Like fear is her weapon, power.

But he isn't just anyone. He is Soul Evans and he is -used to be?- her best friend. Knowing the blonde so fluently, can see the pain behind her smile and give an accurate guess of about how much weight she has lost since boy can tell how her loneliness is draining her of herself.

And, it hurts. His stomach flips, it's difficult to breathe.

"I see..." Her steps are heavy and slow as she scans the establishment once more, gaping food-filled maws, startled faces gleaming beneath the lights and chrome, bright against dark furnishings. Maka licks her dry lips, dragging a nasally inhale, she crosses the threshold. "Well, I wouldn't want to ruin anybody's meal, now would I?" Barely audible is her utterance as she retreats, defeated, that smile still firmly in place decorating her hair-shadowed, down-turned face.

Air hisses fiercely as the paned door swings to a close, he finds himself staring at it almost in shock, but caught someplace between sentimentality and remorse, almost wishing she would return and contritely allayed by her extradition. Gulping down the sickness with himself, Soul flags down his waiter, placing one last order to go and asking for the bill, he raps nail-bitten tips harshly against the table's top in his impatience.

When the curly, fire-headed male returns, placing the plastic dish and paper in front of the albino, he shuts crimson orbs, groaning out his momentary reprieve. He just can't be here anymore.

The hostess huffs in relief, still marginally vexed by the prior encounter, as he saunters up to the register to pay. Soul's order comes quickly and he couldn't be more glad. He has no words for the fake cheer the brunette is laying on him past the mumbled 'thanks' when she hands the teen his change and sack of to-go food.

Bag in hand, he pushes through that warm glass paneled door, into the scorching atmosphere, miserably unforgotten by the sun. Buildings dress the city in useless shadow, painting the sky black as each tower cuts through the light briefly. Noise assaults him immediately, from car horns to rowdy teenagers as he wanders the pavement aimless and silent, yet ever upholding his composure. Though, no sooner did he remind himself of this, it slipped.

Because of her. Always because of her.

She lay so delicately draped over the slats of heated, paint-chipped bus-bench, hair like spun gold spilling through the cracks, nearly emaciated, her curves jut in points as she shifts slightly in her sleep. A whimper squeaks from barely parted lips, whispering against the purse beneath her cheek, and his chest constricts at the forlorn sound, a dull ache burrowing deep and spreading fast. The boy rubs at his sternum with his free hand in vain, though he knows nothing can erase this feeling. Sanguine orbs drop from the sight, ashamed.

In his hand, the white bag blinds his diverted stare, reflecting the sunlight into a punishing beam. Like a stupid fucking beacon noting a brilliant peace-offering. Soul half-asses a smirk, more a habitual reward for thinking than actual emotion. Without realizing it, he's already past the bench, hands snug in his pockets and the bag is out of his hand. As if it took mental auto-pilot to pull off the drop! Shrugging, the snowy haired boy rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck as he sighs. Smooth strides carry the teen further and he turns down the next narrow, brick-built alley to retrieve his precious motored bike.

o.o.o

His little gift wasn't enough. Even if he could do that for her at every meal, every day for the rest of his life, it would still not be enough. That familiar gripping pain gnaws at him again, igniting his chest with such frigid, intense purchase. Truth is... he's too afraid to do much else for Maka, no matter how much it hurts, how much it sucks... No matter how much he thinks about doing more.

Fear.

He's fucking afraid of the girl he loves. Scared... Soul Evans is scared shitless and that's a secret he just might take to the grave. His conflicted heart can't take much more.

~O~O~O~

The halls are every bit as empty as they always were. Thick rubber soles clodding quickly across the shining stratified floor, she follows the invisible path lain before her, through this barren antiseptic wasteland, not even bothering with the dark rectangular signs posted on the wall. Maka has been here so many times, it's almost impossible for her to lose her way even in all of this death-palace's sinuous glory. Besides, how much more lost can she really get?

Sharp turns and stretched halls of the same boring polished, chalky alabaster walls and contrasting closed doors eventually lead the pig-tailed teen to her destination. Smiling behind the itchy paper mask, she invariably presses the chilled brushed metal latch, her first steps pushing into the brisk, mechanically clamorous room. Perpetual unflattering light seems to greet the girl with it's paling effect upon her skin, through it's loutish consistency the blonde no longer takes notice as emerald scans floorward, head dipping unnecessarily under the frame as if it were some unspoken custom to this ritual.

"Pa-" Her simper falters, feet planting into the vinyl, toes curling against the soles of her shoes.

"Ah, hello! Maka Albarn, I presume?" The man greets blindly from over his shoulder as he pulls the linens back to Spirit's chest before he busies himself checking the man's leads and IV's. He turns around, closing the plastic curtains behind him.

Maka just stares at the man. Her face is blank but her eyes are taking great care to burn into this intruder, from his mussed platinum hair to that grizzly scar. Her stomach is turning, his presence makes her sick. But, she stands her ground showing no weakness, showing him that he is not welcome here. That she wants nothing to do with the prick that had an active roll in why she's standing here.

He should already know who the hell she is. He helped ruin her life.

"Okie dokie..." He gives a nod of his head, unperturbed by her continence. "Not in a talkative mood. Not a problem." His coat swishes around his legs as long strides carry him past her to the sanitizer on the wall, a hand whimsically waving away the previous notion, as if trying to clear the air of it's stifling stagnant enmity. "Maybe next time, huh?" He smiles at her, has the gall to cheerily grin at her behind that damned paper mask his eyes fucking twinkle beyond spectacles that she fights down the urge to rip from his face. Watching that infuriating doctor exit, his whistles taunt her as he fades away into the hall.

Turning back to the matter at hand, slitted emerald regards that pallid man. A pathetic waste, pale and useless soaking up medication in vain. Dropping her bag, her footsteps booming in this otherwise empty room to fall on deaf ears. The teen's teeth grit as her lips twitch upwards, further and further, her mask covering such a smiling snarl. She's enthusiastically resolute, knowing what needs to be done, how to do it. With steady fingers, Maka grips the slick curtains, peeling back the barrier between them. Her breath heavy but her mind set, she leans in close, hot breath stifling in it's protective trap against her own skin with every monotone word.

"Good bye, Papa." Her shoe skillfully presses down, tugging both plugs from the wall.

The ventilator gives one more pump as the power dies out, the monitor no longer beeps as she replaces the clear drape, sauntering over to the bathroom door and plucking her bag from the floor along the way. The blonde doesn't look back, because there is no going back... Like her life before that man's execrable dissension, foreseeing the eventual ruination of epoch. Breathing deeply, the paper clings to her nostrils as she frocibly steadies her lungs. Spirit deserves this, doesn't he? The girl expels the oxygen slowly, every step forward seems to come at a snail's pace. She needs to get away for a little bit, if only in the next room. But, it feels like its taking forever, something naggling at her, as if she's swimming through a current back to that dying man and all the girl wants is to leave him to his own waste. Her feet unwillingly hesitate before they progress... Why? She wants this, so bad... right?

Right. With a relieved sigh, the teen reaches a familiar barrier. A door to her cleansing, salvation... reflection. A physical interpretation of what she is capable of, what is being given: time to let her logic flow void of her own emotions, and she might as well take advantage of the shower while she waits. With her father dead, no longer an incompetent expenditure Maka won't have to grace that disgusting asshole of a doctor with a 'next time.' He and Spirit can go to Hell. Is that coming from her logical or emotional thoughts? Both, maybe.

The door clicks shut, blinding lights assault her and yet she looks on. Her reflection greets her, watching her with cold, misted jade as her digits rip the paper from her face to reveal a friendlier sight. Momma did always say 'smiles make everyone look their best.'

Numbly, Maka kicks off her sneakers and shifts the clothes from her limbs, letting them pool by her naked feet. The world around her dims even with undeniable luminescence beating down upon her, though those eyes, her eyes, seemingly pierces through her in all of their vibrant dismality, delving deep into a part of her she would rather stay hidden from every one. Especially herself. Brows furrowing, the blonde's lids slam shut. Squeezing so tightly that the muscles of her face ache. She turns from the mirror. She doesn't ever look into the mirror... There is the reason. She hates what she sees. Hates herself for what she is, what she isn't. Despises what she can't do, even more so for what she is capable of.

A careful flick of the wrist brings falls of heated water from the pipes. A simple step brings her into the freedom of the scalding rain, washing away whatever evidence of her tears that may or may not surface.

The girl lets the water burn it's way down her flesh as she slides down the rubberized wall to sit in the cascade, watching as the lines of irritated pink spread, connecting, enveloping her skin in an angry blaze of red.

Her abused fingertips dance at the shower's floor, fidgeting, trying desperately to fend off the need of retribution. The twitch fails miserably, her hand glides out of the stall, dampening the floor and her bag as she searches for her tool of penance, gripping its thin body and pulling it into the steam with metal fogs around her digits, stray droplets travel its short length as her gaze deadens on the sharp edge.

Lifting her arm, she drags the blade across the skin at the crook of her elbow, savoring it's nomadic sting as the wound stretches on, spreading with her derma's elasticity. Crimson gathers in the center of the cavern, spilling over with the shower's spray. It brings with it no release this time, beautiful as the sanguine ballet is as it dances round the trail of rain.

Maka presses in again, below the first bloodied basin, letting the ditch surpass the previous in length. Her torn skin swells between the two slices as her life's essence spills over, painting the drain in a swirling pink. It's still not enough. This will never be enough. Nothing could give her what she deserves, not when it's so hard to tell what that is, exactly.

The cuts become more shallow the more frantic she gets, scratching at an itch that is too deep to reach, relief unattainable. Her breath is heavy in her hollowing chest. It hurts with how fast she's breathing, how rapid her heart beats against her ribs.

No longer does the bathroom smell of antibacterial soap and bleach; steam reminiscent of copper and soil fills her senses. Her nerves scream at her as the heated spray further aggravates tortured flesh and finally she gives a throaty resigned chuckle, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the beating water as the metal falls from her grasp.

~O~O~O~

Rich golden rays cast the cityscape horizon in a shadowy silhouette, leaving the busy metropolis a dull buzz compared to it's expansive entirety. Jittery hands against the grain, the wooden gate whines with his entry as Crona shuffles into the yard. Prickling at the soles of his tired feet, the rocks scrape against each other with his weighty tread. Sighing, he ambles quickly to the doors, eager to return to solitude, to catch his breath as he relishes the pride of finishing his given task.

Cool air blasts his hot skin before he scrambles inside, his feet seemingly melting with pleasant abandon against the cold stone. Ribs still thrumming with a fulfilled pain from his adrenalized high, he smiles broadly making his way through the silent house.

Details do not matter, exactly what he prepared those people for, what advances he bestowed upon them with that simple powder. He helped them, with his own two hands no less. A secret hero, of sorts. The way those two boys giggled with each other sticks into his mind, his cheeks hurt with how large he's smiling. He's so happy, but that twinge in his heart is still present because of Ragnarok's absence.

Scaling the stairs, he feels nothing but that pleasant hum of joy. No fear, the height doesn't bother him. Because, for the first time in his entire life he, with his own abilities and freedom, has done something productive. Not the data of his vitals, nor the science behind his internal structure. Not charts nor tests regarding or pertaining to his body... Crona did this. And, damn it if he was not going to enjoy this feeling.

Being able to provide for a family... He feels like he could do anything, that anything is possible for his own. With that thought in mind and his room's door quickly approaching, he laughs a little to himself, because it's going to be a good night full of good the cool handle, he presses onward into his stark room, suspiciously eyeing the silvery food cart. Unfortunately, the food will probably still suck, though.

~O~O~O~

"God damn it stupid mother fucking piece of slimy shits..." Hoarse angry mumbles pass Maka's lips as she works to secure a folded rectangular pad of thin toilet paper with a tooth-de-fingered glove. Though, with every pull at the latex, her makeshift gauze falls away leaving her grisly oozing artwork exposed.

The teen hadn't meant to go so far. She wasn't thinking, at least not coherently. And now, it is time for damage control. As much as she dislikes the people around her... There are kids in the places she frequents most and being the kick-start to nightmares is not something that sounds too appealing. Not with the way everyone already looks at her.

Delicately, she uses her teeth to lift the tightly bound rubber, fingers working quickly to hide her castigation with an even blanket of cheap, rough bathroom tissue. Hissing inwardly after releasing the latex, it snaps at her flesh, irritating the ridges of every slice and itching like wormy asshole as the toilet (sand)paper shifts. But, behind the verbal response her lips tug into a grin.

Maka lets out a satisfied puff, wandering from the bathroom, she stops at the door, leaning against the chilled wood to look upon the cold cadaver. Ashen waxy flesh peeks from dull auburn locks, those sickly lashes sticking to sunken cheeks... Never to open again.

She feels nothing in this moment, she's been cold for so long, so very empty on the inside as she's waited for things to get better... For things to go back to the way they were, before all of this. Optimism and this cold corpse ate away at everything she was. Maka is every bit the shell that this burdensome body is. But, there is still that pull, dragging her back to this man's side, vestige of the girl's sneakers sluggish, demurring.

"Tch." Sucking at her teeth, she bends to the floor, plucking the plugs from the floor and replacing them into their socket before straightening up and leaving his side once more, without a second glance. The monitor buzzes loudly as the ventilator pumps into dead lungs, a shrinking sound as Maka frees herself from Spirit's confines, leaving it all behind.

Her legs swing mechanically, treading the 'No Hope' wing of its labyrinthine halls: where the patients are laying, awaiting death and the staff are merely a clean-up crew. Don't they know? They can get rid of that man's body, but no one can clean up the mess he's left behind.

~O~O~O~

"I don't know if I can do this any more." Crona inhales shakily, his hands knotted at his sides, knuckles bound so harshly that they are white as he fights through the nausea bloating his esophagus and the sharp pain tearing at him from deep inside. His eyes are so soggy with salt that rings of rash has begun to form. Peering through sheets of unshed tears, he turns his head to hazily look upon Ragnarok, rose brows knitted painfully as he hopes silently that the other boy doesn't feel what he does.

Teeth grit, grinding behind tight lips, his countenance is unwavering... But the way his eyes darken tells a different story. One that sends pangs beyond physical to grip Crona's heart.

"What other choice do we really have, guy? Shit's standard procedure, you know this." Ragnarok takes in a nasally breath closing his eyes as he leans deeper into his cot. "You know it will be okay. Shit, you can have my 'killers if it will quit your bitchin'." His tone is gravelly, a little too stony. He's forcing himself to be stronger. Trying to hold them both together with the confidence of his gestures. And he succeeds, somewhat, like every other time.

Crona tries to smile behind the shooting pains gripping his abdomen, a quiet torture, but a sob forces it's way out, choking him up and breaking the barrier allowing the tears to trail.

"Hmmhm hm hm hmhm hmm hmm hmhm hm hmmhmm hm hm hmm hm hmm hm hmmhm hmm... My body's broken, yours is bent. Carve your name into my arm, instead of stressed I lie here charmed. 'Cause there's nothing else to do... Every me and every you." Ragnarok's timbre is gravelly yet soft to Crona's ears, and just for a moment, it helps. For that short moment, he is able to focus on the beat of his brother's hums and the words of a song he was sure Ragnarok was struggling to remember himself.

~O~O~O~

Everywhere.

He's everywhere she looks. That damn smile, that fucking laugh... with her mom and holding her hand. Can't she just have some damn peace?! Can't the girl walk through the city without having to look at Spirit. It's draining, her heart tugs at every active image, wishing to go back to that time, to live it out more fully, to treasure it, and yet she's left with nothing more than a fading mirage and this damned numbness that makes it hard to breathe. Maka stops at a crosswalk, holding the pole for support as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her forehead falls to meet the metal, it's cool to the touch as she huffs through her burning throat. Her chest aches, she clenches her teeth.

It won't stop, it should have ended with his last breath, but IT WON'T FUCKING STOP! They ridicule her, ever-looping behind shut lids flowing from her ducts in scalding, salted trickles that burn her moist, heated cheeks. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Didn't she get rid of him? Didn't she just escape this? She should never have to be around him again. She's free, right? It's infuriating, and she takes it out on the beam with her head in rapid taps between pissed-off sobs.

She's not sad, why would she be upset for doing the world a favor? He ruined more than he built, she reaped what he's sown. No, she'd never regret this. His death brings her closure, not grief. Right? Still, these memories are here, surrounding the girl, even stronger as she professes the man's death, his smiling face, his laugh, the feel of his strong arms holding her tight as she cries about a boo-boo on her knee.

Banishing the tears from her cheeks roughly, she growls, dragging in a shuddering breath, focusing through these wayward memories before forcing her legs to move across the empty street and onto an equally empty sidewalk. Briefly sparing a glance toward that fence, she wonders if the mystery person can see her. If those eyes can see how absolutely fucked up she really is. Maybe... Maybe those baby-blues should take a big gander and leave her the fuck alone, just like everyone else... Just like this fucked up imagery of what used to be should.

Sighing, her pace slows, fingers flop from each bar at her side as she passes. They chill the tips, matching the way she feels inside. Cold; so very frigid. It's a hollow pain that resonates, nearly debilitating. But, by sheer will she carries on, through the creaking gate and onto the unnaturally maintained lawn as it swishes with every stride and crunches with each step.

Maka passes the tree, her peripherals too clogged with sights and sounds that should have stayed buried in the past. Grinding her molars, her face is a war of muscles, tugging airs of pain and half-cocked grins, salt painting her face despite her vain attempt to wipe the trails.

Kicking at sugary dirt at the foot of the abandoned swing, she grabs at the chain with a weak hand, barely turning enough to seat herself before the onslaught of violent sobs wrack her body in silence. Maka doesn't want to hear herself, it's bad enough that she's letting this get to her. Though, it couldn't be helped. He just forces himself in, wrecking her thoughts, her life, like he always has.

"Fucking bastard." Maka chokes out, sniffling. "God damn it... God fucking damn it..." Creaking, the chains sway gently, faded emerald watches her feet trail ditches in the fine sand expunging them with every pass. It's hard to breathe, the air catches in her chest before it leaves her in sputters. But she stays transfixed, her shoes making a path that she can just as easily erase.

Her life is nothing like this sand. Every ugly thing carved into it's surface creates a bigger picture that can just be swept away within moments. Maka will always have these scars, she'll always have her experiences... She can't just erase them, can't just forget. She can never start off fresh and new. The sand is lucky.

Her free hand wipes absently at stray tears before gripping the other chain, her precious bag secured across her chest and upon her lap, she kicks. Back, forth, back, forth. Higher and higher until she is certain she can't push any further, and then...

The girl lets go.

In this moment, she can accept it all. All life's little nuances, because it was the design she was meant for... Whatever the hell that means. But she also realizes something else: yeah, she may not be easily cleansed like the sand. She's so much stronger.

The blonde has gone through all of this shit, standing tall no matter how many had turned their backs. She did not crumble... not completely anyway, she can't. It's impossible. This shell of a girl, it will take so much more to break her.

Her stomach feels weightless as she speeds through the air, grass quickly approaching, the laughter bubbling out in a childish reflex. Feet hitting the padded ground with a thud, she keeps going, propelled by the force.

She slows, the tree in sight and she lifts her face to the clear night sky. Dim stars twinkle as best they can among the streetlights lining the city. Maka inhales deeply, trying to catch her breath between giggles.

He's dead. And he damn sure isn't up there, or anywhere around. It's all in her head. Just in her head. Settling into her favorite spot, she slides into the nook between rough barked roots, a sigh escaping as her damp eyes flutter shut. Because, Spirit is no longer on the list of problems she has any more. That loose end has been tied and now, she has nothing but time to figure out how to tie off the rest.

She drifts into the darkness, spinning through a merry-go-round of memories. It teases her with innocent laughter lost for the rest of her lifetime. Her mother is unrecognizable, now strangers to each other. Raucous teenage friendships, so warm, sour as they start disappearing one by one, fading into the abyss until she is left shivering and alone. Her tears flow freely beneath shut lids as her subconscious wracks her with irrefutable truths, begrudgingly accepted.

~O~O~O~

Blinding, even behind closed orbs, the lights are first to assault his hazy senses. It's familiar, stinging clean stench, the roughness of his bed. Though, seldom is there ever any noise. Crona's first instinct is to bury his face into the scratchy fabric below him, to block out all unwanted sounds in a last-ditch attempt to grasp onto the remaining lull of unconsciousness. To block out the repetition of his daily life. But, he doesn't follow instinct. His life has changed so much in the past month and this sound fills him with ridiculous amounts of hope.

The tablet is streaming something, the pinkette isn't sure quite what, but is certain that he didn't touch it. Crystal peeks blurrily through long rose lashes, scanning the room for company... For Ragnarok. Hope builds further in his chest, so much that it burns. Furiously, his fists work to rid his eyes from remaining sleep film before his vision takes in that empty cot, then the open bathroom. No one.

"What the hell did you expect, a fucking party?" Exhaling slowly, he nods, because he agrees with that voice. What exactly was he expecting? Standing on drowsy limbs, Crona slumps over to the focus of commotion. It seems a video is reloading, getting ready to play again.

His heart stops as he reads the bold black headline at the top of a solemn male's face,
"RESPECTED COMMUNITY LEADER BIOGENETICIST AND FAMILY FOUND DEAD" alongside a smiling family photo. That picture of a man happily embracing a familiar woman and their two kids. It stays at the upper right corner of the screen and Crona can't rip his eyes away as the forefront man begins to speak.

"... Colleagues say that they were worried that he had not shown up to work. It wasn't like him to take time off on the cusp of such a breakthrough. Concerned, his team leader showed to check up on him. Reports say that he found it strange that both vehicles were present but no one was answering so he placed a call to authorities for assistance." Crona's lips quiver and his eyes burn. He can still hear the giggles of those two boys from a few days ago echoing faintly as though it was still happening, his vision blurs and he works to breathe steadily.

"Coroner's toxicology reports have ruled out the possibility of drugs, poisons and fatal allergies, which has stunned the medical community, especially with the lack of evidence suggesting trauma to their bodies. But one thing is certain, their deaths were not natural. We mourn this loss here at DETH-TV, and in rememberance of Doctor Sidney Barrett, the children of Death City's community center, a place in which the late doctor volunteered many devoted hours, had this to say about the man that taught them more than just sports:" Leaving nothing but a solemn frown, the anchor fades and neat rows of tear-stained, splotched faces are hiding behind trembling, balled fists and each other. There is nothing but the silent, sobbing murmurs to torture the teen's own soul before a soggy teal set seem to peer directly at him, sucking the air straight from his lungs.

"Sid was," A shaking hand drags through the distraught teen's tousled flaxen locks, gripping it roughly, a pained expression marring his distraught face as he fights to regain strength in his cracking voice, " he was a good man." The blonde sputters for breath, a whine clearly lodged in his throat desperately trying to escape.

"He taught us how to use our bodies to their best ability, pointed out our qualities when some of us thought we had none." It's clear that he can't look into the camera anymore, his lids shut so fiercely and finally the boy lets his grief flow. It shines on his pinkened cheeks and Crona can't stand the sight, but he looks on, watching in shock, horror, guilt for what he may or may not have caused. Did he do something wrong, fail? This wasn't supposed to happen!

"Sid gave us hope, the one thing most of us come here for. The community center is a safe place, the only place some have. And he was like an older brother to me, and an actual foster father for a couple of kids-" The pinkette can hear the reporter mumble something to the boy, and once again those bloodshot blue-green eyes are staring at him, in horror, appalled, before a loud cry breaks free and the blonde boy is on the ground, hands to his face as his body is wracked in violent tremors. Distance between him and the reporter's microphone is great, but beyond the whistling static and the garbled sadness, Crona can decipher one last sentiment before the screen cuts back to the main anchor. "Not them, too! They... they were so young!"

"More on-" The glass surface goes black, but Crona is stuck, staring at the place where the family, the group of kids, that boy had been, a glimpse of a joyous moment trapped in time and great anguish due to loss and remembrance. His icy orbs stay stationary, but the room seems to be spinning. It's hard to breathe, to think, the air is so heavy, so cold.

He was supposed to help these people. Was supposed to do something heroic, to strengthen their lifespans. Just what the hell happened? Crona can't keep his eyes open. His skin is tingling with a heat running the course of his body while his lungs sting with every rapid arctic breath. Balance and gravity work against him, and the frozen stone is there to greet him as he falls. His head connects with a sickly thud as static colors swim in pulses in front of clenched eyes.

It hurts; his skull, heart, his stomach elaborately turns in violent knots. He's going to be sick. The pinkette can feel bile rising, eroding his esophagus along it's slow trail, the bitter acidic fumes sit in his throat as he fights to keep it down. He failed them, his mother, Ragnarok. Never has he ever done anything right. Never. And because of him, people suffer.

He did this. He killed those children, silenced their laughter, stole the opportunity for their parents to watch them grow up. He stomped out their happiness by simply being himself; a disgrace. There is no one else to blame. Doctor Gorgon has never led him astray, her medicines have always done as they were made to. He must have missed something, a critical step. Botched their chances because of omission.

This pain is searing, his chest aches, resounding in a sharp stabbing hollow. He is nothing without his brother to guide him; without his mother to give him directions step by step.

"No. No no no no..." His face burns in rivers, his neck aches with every ugly wet inhale. Why couldn't he just do this one thing? Why did they need to die? Why couldn't it be him instead.

"Such a pity, isn't it?"

Oh no. He can't face her, Crona can't look her in the eye right now... Not when he's messed up so bad. He sniffs, trying to calm enough to answer her should she need him to. He owes her for his shortcomings. He needs to make this blunder up to her.

"It's a shame to see how some blatantly disregard instructions." Medusa, frowns, gazing at the black screen with disgust. Crona hasn't raised his face, every word is like a twist to the metaphorical knife in his soul. He knows now. Crona saw the consequences of his stupidity. Gulping down fresh sobs, he remains floorward.

"It was so easy, too. All it took was trust, confidence in my abilities, in my agenda." Arms crossing her chest, she sucks on her teeth and sighs. "Oh well."

Crona's breath caught. He couldn't believe she would be so nonchalant about a mistake this big. It pained him more to hear her brush this away without scolding him, punishing him. Voice thick with his sorrow, he had to force it to work, had to do something.

"I'm sorry. I d-didn't-"

"What?" Confused, she quirks a flaxen brow at the broken boy at her feet. He snaps his slime-slick face at her amused chuckle. "What are you going on about?"

"I don't understand Doctor Gorgon, I thought I messed up?" One hand wipes at the liquids on his face as his brows furrow and head tilts.

"No, child! Lamentably, I expected this outcome... Though I had held out some hope that the fool would have listened to me." Slit gold meets wide blue, her sentence loses strength. "They should have taken the vaccines."

"What did I do?" Teeth grit, the boy doesn't know what is going on, but he's angry, hurts to his core, and those damn giggles echoing in his head make him want to die, the words barely audible rasp past a quivering snarl on exhale.

"You tested the loyalty of a partner." Medusa breaks eye contact as she turns, a few quick steps taking her to the door jamb. She stops, with only one thing left to offer as explanation. "Unfortunately, he failed me. It's nothing more than that, Crona."

Clacks of her heels echo through the sterile hall as Crona sits on his knees staring at the empty threshold in absolute bewildered abandon. What should he think? Feel? Those kids... He killed those kids... Those people for his mother, as a testament to loyalty. On both parts. He didn't fail her, but those that did... Those who disregarded her are dead. Just what the hell should he feel? Should he be proud of himself? Sick? Sad? Angry? Utterly confused? Because he can definitely do the latter.

"So the bitch offs people when she doesn't get her fucking way?! What kind of shit is this? Fucking psycho cunt!" The pinkette has to agree with that voice, somewhat. It's definitely not normal.

He snorts, the chuckles bubble out of him before he has a chance to stifle them so his hands fly up, trying to cover his mouth, but they only morph the sound. Normal! Ha! That's fucking ridiculous! He's never known normal! Never will! Why does he even keep that silly word in his vocabulary?

What is it? It certainly isn't killing people? It isn't watching people from behind a fence! It's not being cut open time and time again! No, ... Maybe it is? Crona laughs harder, letting himself fall so that his back is lined on the cool marble, a fist pounding with every hearty spasm.

~O~O~O~

Maka scratches at the latex binding her arm idly as she peeks from her squatted position behind a parked SUV. Her target's occupants are piling out of the room, pulling their bags behind them, wheels scraping across the pavement fading into the distance. She has to move quickly, housekeeping is making their rounds and she doesn't have much time to get there from her current stance.

She sets herself low, running between vehicles and keeping at least one between the eyes of the motel-maid and herself. The door is about an inch away from auto-locking her out, she sticks out her arm, fingers taking the brunt of the force of the gaudy burnt orange barrier, though the blonde stays quiet as she slips through the crack, sticking the 'do not disturb' sign on the handle for good measure.

Collapsing on the bed, she heaves a sigh at the cool air steadily pumping from the a/c. It's so much nicer than stale air. Much better than spending a whole day in the heat of the park. Much better than stalking the hospital for the elusive scar-faced dick. She hasn't been back there yet, but soon... soon she will figure out how to tie off that loose end. Maka hasn't been back to that house either, not wanting to strengthen the haunt of her memories she finds that hotels and motels of recently vacated rooms make for a nice quick shower and nap. It just takes too much moving, frankly it's already getting old.

She doesn't know why she did it this time. Well-rested and clean enough, maybe it was just boredom? Maka sighs, sitting up upon the crumpled sheets she digs in her purse for her water, twisting the cap to take a greedy gulp. Re-capping and stuffing it back in her bag, her gaze set on the mini-fridge, she saunters over. Before pulling the small door open, she squints an eye and crosses her fingers. Leftover restaurant food is hella good.

Along the seal, the tiny white appliance's door cracks. Her breath comes in short pants, holding the door only slightly opened Maka mouths a silent prayer for a good find before revealing the thing's contents. A lone styrofoam box, a can of generic cola and six miniature vodka bottles greet her misting sight. So beautiful!

Eagerly she grabs it all, plopping straight down on to the beaded carpetting, the bottles clink together in the bag, a forgotten treasure in the wake of the to-go box. Hands ripping the top open, her mouth salivating, she has to bite back a squeal of excitement. Those people forgot an untouched taco salad. It's condiments gleaming from little black cups, salsa, lime chip straws, extra fucking guacamole. A single tear runs the length of her cheek as she dumps it all into the crisp, devoted tortilla basket. How long has it been since she's had a taco, much less a taco salad?

Maka banishes the question from her mind with a shake of her head and a mounded chippy bite of taco-slop, crunchy chews behind the biggest pleasure-drenched smile. She fucking adores tacos.

Bite after chilly, delicious bite, the teen continues to demolish the food until all that is left is a tongue-cleaned styrofoam container and spit-damp plastic cups. Leaning back on the palms of her hands, she pats her stomach and puffs out a contented sigh. Her hand finds the lapsed soda, popping the tab with the skill of a toned forefinger, Maka takes a big sip of the icy syrup. She burps. Again and again, rolling from her innards on out until even she is surprised with herself. Eyes wide, she blinks, leaving the drink where it lay, grabbing her stuff as she eyes the gassy elixir. The girl stands, turning her back on the trash exiting in smooth stride, through the ugly threshold and back into sun-soaked city. With a clear head and a full stomach, she can face that park, those streets, the memories again. She's had her time to simmer, now it's time to figure this puzzle out.

~O~O~O~

He can't think, can not breathe in this sterile place. He's got to get out, he needs something to steal his mind away from these things he just simply can't change. With every heavy footfall, his soles stick to the hygienic residue. Each stride brings him deeper into the phosphorescent hall, closer to the rest of this house that he only recently discovered. The farther that he travels through these pseudo-foreign entryways, the less he feels like himself... Whoever it is that Medusa has created. Because Crona is not his own person.

Jarring step after jarring step, the flights of stairs are defeated in kaleidoscopic blur, unblinking crystal orbs, barely checking in as he follows a trained trail. Yet another thing he has done on his own to contrast with the rest of his life. He needs his brother, needs his gruff words, his rude, yet comforting thoughts. He needs to let this out, even if his brother would scoff... Even if the raven-haired boy would ignore the pinkette. He just needs his presence.

Medusa. What are her plans for them, everyone for that matter? Crona doesn't know, and normally that wouldn't cross his mind any more than just being a fleeting thought. But she took Ragnarok, had Crona kill those children, that entire family... That warm home filled with toys, happy photographs and drawings now sits empty... A crime scene. His crime,... His mother's crime.

Medusa Gorgon is everything he knows, law, right and wrong... But from the things he's educated himself with. E-books and the like... No matter who you are, murder is wrong. Why couldn't they live?

The teen's ducts tingle heatedly, though no tears escape. He's cried out, laughed out. Crona is empty. Sluggish hands grasp the handles, turning them, freeing him from this strange place that is his home to the wide expanse that he has been denied for so long. The boy needs something, anything really. What ever does not have to anything to do with this boxy place that smells of toxic antiseptic and ice.

Sunlight blasts his face, limbs, his skin loosens as does the pinkette's muscles, as if he is thawing with every motion. Stabbing at his nude feet does not bother him, the rocks whine with their dry grind beneath him. Crona barely hesitates before pushing himself through the wooden fence's gate, immersing himself into this strange world. A world that doesn't know him. A world that he doesn't know.

He knows what he needs, nude feet lead him to that place he's never been with the colors that stole the air from his lungs on that very first day out. He doesn't have permission... but does that even matter any more?

Crona knows he won't go too far, and Doctor Gorgon knows that as well. She's designed it as such, molded his life to revolve around that house as she now dangles his missing brother's whereabouts in his face. No, the pinkette will never leave her, because he will never leave Ragnarok behind. But what he will do is take a damn break. There's a story that he is particularly interested in, needs to see that next page.

The boy needs to see her. To cut out everything that is happening in his seemingly meaningless existence, to not think, just be. To see this fascinatingly solitary creature that has held his interest from the start. Stepping down from the concrete, he crosses the asphalt without a glance and, miraculously without issue, he reaches the other sidewalk turning to tread alongside those black bars lining neon hues and green. So much green.

~O~O~O~

"Doctor Stein, you have a call holding on line three. Doctor Franken Stein, you have a call holding on line three."

Stein looks to the ceiling as the feedback scratches, unhindered by the blinding spotlight upon him, he lets out the slightest of sighs before pulling his gloved hands from the gaping blue sheets covering a waxy open corpse. Glasses flashing with the turn of his head, the silvery-streaked man shrugs at the balcony of interns with a sheepish smile behind a stiff paper mask.

"What can I say? I'm quite the popular man!" Chuckling, he peels the blood-soaked rubber from his hands pulling a loose sheet to cover his work. "No peeking! I will continue in a few minutes. Don't go anywhere, we'll be getting into the juicy bits soon!"

Wiping at his brow, white-grey locks stick at his skin, his palm slides down his face to yank the mask to rest beneath his chin before he exits through the heavy metal doors. Grabbing the receiver, he pushes the blinking red button, trying to calm his breath from the excitement of moments ago.

"Stein here." His breathy tone heats the mouthpiece with a layer of fog as the doctor turns to lean against frigid wall.

"My, my... I must have caught you during demonstration, haven't I, pet?" From the other end, Medusa swivels her chair, crossing one long leg over the other. Finger twirling the end of her flaxen twist, idly.

"You know me too well, Meddy." Scratching at his cheek, he smirks a bit. "What's this about?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd heard or not, but we lost another set of hands." Exhaling slowly, she drops the silken strands to rub at her temple.

"The virus?" Pushing his frames up the bridge of his nose, Stein shifts.

"Not quite. Just listen, alright?"

"Okay." He nibbles at a tag of dry skin on his lip, thoroughly immersed in whatever reasoning Medusa is ready to give.

"I've had my suspicions about our partner for a while. His wife was against all medical immunizations and he held a reluctance to vaccinate to honor her wishes. He had distanced himself from our cause, started only making appearances to the meetings, leaving shortly after." Her brows furrow, eyes narrowing at the wall. "We gave him all the tools necessary to protect himself and his new family..."

Closing golden orbs, a disgusted scoff escapes parted lips. "I went to pay a visit to him at his lab and noticed stuffed in the biohazard bin a number of vials crushed beyond comprehension... Our vials, Franken." Opening her eyes once more, she stares at her black dress-hugged thigh, not really seeing. "I was hoping that they had taken it, but I wasn't sure."

"Medusa, just tell me what happened." Stein grips his fist, still gnawing at his lip.

"I had Crona test them." Medusa sighs once more, her timbre losing strength. "The iocaine powder... It kind of puts us in a bind, but in sagacity, we've just saved he and his family a slew of suffering. I-I just thought you should be informed. He was a friend of yours, after all."

"Yes, yes. Understood... And Meddy?" Freeing his lip, he nods once.

"Yes, pet?"

"You are absolutely right. Had Sid thought to heed our warnings, you would have never had to test their trust... Besides, that powder is fast-acting. They most definitely didn't suffer. If he had the option to choose, it would have been that way... That's just the type of man he was. It's only a shame that those boys weren't of a more fortunate grouping." Pausing, Stein let his sentiments sink in a moment. "I'll be over later, alright? My procedure is tonight, that always cheers you up." Smiling, he hangs the phone up, grabbing a pair of gloves from the box above and pushes through the hulking steel barrier.

"I'm back~!" Stein sings out, fingers separating the latex, he slips each digit in with precision and pulls up his mask. He's ready to begin again, to feel those soft organs surrounding his hands as sticky crimson paints him.

It's Spirit's payment to him, after all. He was goint to be inside this man anyway, but doing it in front of onlookers holds more appeal than privacy. He snickers, ripping the cover from the red-head's exposed viscera. Unheard by him, the students sitting in the balcony swallow the momentary relief of his absence with the uneasiness upon his return.

Across town, Medusa sets her phone atop the glass surface of her desk, it's click loud in the otherwise barren room. He's right, she does love performing his procedure just as much as she loves it's effects. Who doesn't value expanding knowledge and utter obedience. Franken has always proven to be quite the entertaining side-project. Her lips purse, curling upward as the thought of preparations sets her body to motion.

~O~O~O~

Why is she reading yet another trashy romance? Just why does she feel the need to subject herself to this nonsense over and over again. Repetitive words depicting this grand euphoric feeling, a liar emotion. Is it habitual? Some sort of sordid inside joke that she's living? Meh. It doesn't really even matter much, does it?

She turns another page, absorbed in the corny poetry leaking from every cheesy line. Snorting, she grins, unable to deny that the literature is entertaining in it's own right... In the fact that it is nothing like real life, the mechanics of relationships aren't that cut and dry and ... sappy. Maka shudders, swallowing down the vomit. Maybe it's a good thing that this love crap is so widely misrepresented. There would be no profit, no marketing if people knew the truth.

And then, there would be no books to pore through and make fun of, while secretly pining for the fake muscle-hunks. That, in itself, would be utterly tragic. It has been quite some time since she's had any sort of physical contact, and sadly enough this is the only way she can get her fill. Feeling the hundredth chill that hour, she peeks from behind the cover. This feeling is so familiar, and it's been happening constantly. There is no one else around, it's frustrating, but she shakes it off, skimming over the little words to recover her place.

A breeze blows through, rustling the jade leaves above tousling the ones that have fallen to roll through the crispy green stalks on the ground. The paper in her hands begin to flit, threatening to flip her page. Maka holds strong, though her rebellious hair splays itself against her face with the gust. The girl shakes her head to rid herself of the annoyance, spitting out stray bits that found their way to her mouth. Satisfied that the pesky air has calmed down and contemplating a haircut, she starts over again, scanning to find that one keyword to unlock the paragraph she has not read yet. But damn it if that sensation doesn't arise once more.

She wants to brush it off, the blonde'll probably look up to see nothing, yet again. She'll probably get stuck re-reading the fucking page bis. The teen'll get aggravated and shut the damn thing, foregoing the juicy smut inside. And that is just a damn crime. So, no. Maka decides that she will just keep reading, let the goosebumps crawl along her skin, she doesn't care!

Face flushing scarlet clear to her ears, she presses on in her defiance. The scenes like a blessedly dirty movie playing out in full as everything else fades around her. It's not even text any more.

"¡Oh, no, poco cautiva! Lo que tenemos aquí?" The pig-tailed blonde is staring at this beautiful fictional man as he pulls his hair back into a wavy jet ponytail, slung across glistening, tanned brawn. Those smoldering granite eyes ignite sparks upon her limbs, livening them, as he lowers himself to the rippling sericeous sheets. The girl's breath is heavy upon kiss-plump lips as his stalwart body crawls up to her from the foot of the bed, like a strong beast stalking oh-so-willing prey.

"Usted ha sido atrapado robando." Glistening muscles ripple with every loose grip upon the bedding, it moans in sweet protest at the man's solid weight as he nears, barely touching her scorching skin with his own. Oh god, does she want him closer, this heat is unbearable, but all she wants is to drown in his, to feel that silky jet hair between her fingers as she eagerly runs them through each lock and feels every part that bronze skin beneath her itching palms, but her small wrists are trapped in soft bindings and she is a prisoner in this bed, an enamored captive to this beautiful Spaniard with with his thick, curling accent and scent of musk and spices.

" Y yo estoy aquí para castigar tu en el más maravilloso de formas." His head tilts ever so slightly, that wrangled mane tickling the swell of her breast as small whiskers at his chin scratch her hot flesh while he teases her with a kiss he doesn't plan on giving her just yet. More, she craves more, yet he's just stoking the fire, playing with the delicious lick of the flames. She's praying desperately that he wishes to burn.

"Bellísima mujer, robado mi corazón lo exige." A slick, skilled tongue laves at the shell of the girl's ear as he sinks, dragging straight teeth against her sensitized neck. Whispering along her fevered skin, his breath is sweltering, yet cool, the sensation is heady, every movement he makes is dizzying in the most delectable of ways. The blonde can't think straight, everything is smeared artfully in an erotic fog that she fights to gasp in. Though, she doesn't want to think, the girl wants to feel, to submit to it's hypnotic dance as he travels back down, pliable lips like feathers tickling, sending her nerves into an electric frenzy, circling her navel only to stop, tasting the little dip before dragging his tongue lazily downward in a wet trail that increases that frantic need. It pulses within, an exquisite frustration that builds like a tightly wound coil waiting to be sprung aloose. Planting tortuously slow open-mouthed kisses from hip to hip, he finally-

The grass crunches beside Maka, breaking her focus and she jolts out of reflex.

"WHAT THE SHIT!" The blonde tosses the novel, scrambling clumsily to get away from the source of her startle, tumbling over the large root and landing on her flushed face.

"AHH!" The mass of black screeches, jumping back only to land on what seems to be it's ass with a thud. Crona clutches his chest, his heart beats bruises against his ribs.

Breathlessly recovering, Maka raises up from the lawn, palms to the poking blades, knees digging into the rock-like dirt, to find out just what the fuck just happened, but when her emerald orbs catch those haunting baby blues, she finds herself at a loss of words.

She blinks.

He blinks.

The boy is just staring. He can't tear away, can't move from his uncomfortable sprawl, even though the grass is like scratchy blades of rustling discomfort lodged in places he'd rather not mention. The girl with pigtails and bright yet dull eyes is looking straight at him. He is in the presence of his very own mysterious heroine and the flabbergasted pinkette is utterly speechless.

She blinks.

He blinks.

What should he say? Should he apologize? Say 'hi'? Introduce himself? All are good for starters, though none surface. His throat is so tight that he's sure all that will pass is a squeak. Not only is he a bit starstruck, the boy has never needed to speak with anyone other than Doctor Gorgon and Ragnarok, so... would it be proper custom to say any of the things spinning around in his head? Oh God, the anticipation is too much! Crona's heart won't slow and now breathing is becoming more difficult!

She blinks.

He didn't mean for her to see him, but couldn't stop himself. The moment he caught sight of her, he was frozen, slowly, powerlessly being pulled into her presence by some unknown force. Why does this have to be so difficult? What should he do?!

"Well if this gets any more awkward, you'll probably end up creaming your manties before you even hear her voice, champ." That Ragnarok-like entity grunts through Crona's mind, he squeaks at the message's suddenness, much to his chagrin.

Maka's brow quirks, seeing this person so flustered, she tilts her head, messy pigtails tumble past her shoulder as the blonde watches the pinkette battle himself internally. It's too quiet and it definitely doesn't look like the kid will be saying anything, any time soon. His little yelp having broken the initial awe of the moment, it left her feeling... weird. She gives him another look for good measure before clearing her throat and crawling slowly to retrieve her book. She doesn't make any sudden motions, the teen doesn't want to spook the boy.

Not that she's afraid of him, but she doesn't want to cause him a heart attack. Guy looks like he's having a conniption fit, baring his teeth and gripping his own arm like he's about to yank it off and beat himself with it. His eyes keep darting all over the place, so she takes that moment to get settled back in her spot. The girl's not moving, by all rights, she was here first.

Crona huffs, trying to control his inner monologues and cautiously lets go of his elbow in order to at least straighten up. The blonde's eyes are still on him, he can feel it. Dare he look at her once more? Shaking his head, he banishes the thought.

"Uhh..." She tries, anything to stop this uncomfortable silence. "Hi."

Crona bites his lip as crystal orbs peek from beneath pink bangs and nods. Yeah, that didn't help clear the toxic oddness wafting from all around. The girl blinks and then chuckles nervously, her fingers flipping through flimsy paper pages of the book. She doesn't really know what else to do.

"Hi." His voice is so painfully quiet, she would have missed it had she not been so heavily involved in this painful awkwardness.

One thing is certain: he isn't trying to get away and he's actually trying to converse. Something she hasn't had happen outside of the hospital in so long. It's actually refreshing, at face value... Minus the staring and gawky blundering. She feels herself smiling at this floundering male. He's making some sort of attempt, Maka isn't quite sure what he's trying to accomplish, but she doesn't much mind his presence. His artless bungling is kind of cute, in a way. Or maybe not, she's not entirely sure. It has been a while since she's had willing contact with anyone. The situation in itself is kind of novel.

"You know..." Breaking her gaze and opening her book, she tries to think of something, anything to say to cut the tension. It's too much and she's dying to know just what the hell is going on. "It's rude to sneak up on people." Humming, she locates the scene, making sure to fold the page before setting the literature safely to the side... Unfinished business and whatnot. "What exactly were were you doing? You nearly scared the piss out of me!"

"Gah! I'm sorry!" Staking every bit of willpower he owns, he lifts his chin to meet her stare. Sincerity widened, glassy blue makes her heart skip a beat. Those same eyes still hold no judgement, unlike the others in this town. Maka raises her brow, fending off the want to smirk as she narrows her eyes playfully.

"That doesn't really answer my question, now does it?"

"Oh God, I don't really know what was going on! Please, don't be mad at me. I really didn't mean to scare you... It just sort of happened." Crona takes in a large breath, his shoulders slump finally being able to relax by getting some of that out.

"I see..." Tapping her finger to her chin, Maka purses her lips. "And you aren't afraid to be seen with me?"

"No, why would I be?" His face twists in confusion, the answer on his lips immediate.

"Hmm... No reason. Are you new around here, or something?" She had to ask, unable to reason really why she would feel disappointed and astonished at the same time. Maka did know that she wanted to keep talking. "You aren't like everyone else."

"Well, I am sort-"

"Where are your shoes?!" Upon taking this person in, she couldn't help but interrupt. This city can be a dangerous place: glass, needles, asphalt hot enough to melt the soles of footwear... What in the hell is this dude doing barefoot?

"I don't really... own any..." Abashed, the pinkette looks away, bending at the knee desperately trying to tuck his toes beneath the hem of his robe, the black fabric not giving any leeway.

"No fucking way." Gaping, she gives him another up and down, fully assessing him. His cheeks grow darker at her perusal. It's an odd color between bronze and red, she thinks. Almost looks black, but that doesn't make any sense so she shakes that off only to notice he's not wearing any pants... or a proper shirt for that matter.

Maybe he is actually a she? It would suck to have pegged him wrong.

"Are you like... a hippie or something? Is it a religious preference? Is that a dress, or a bathrobe... A smock maybe? Are you a nude model? ... You know what? Forget all that shit." Waving a hand dismissively, the other digs in her bag, pulling out a pair of plain black flip-flops. They are thin, mostly just to be used as shower shoes, but for some reason, she can't bear to think of him walking around without something. Maka chucks the footwear gently in his direction. "They're a little big on me, so you can have 'em. Put these on."

Crona blinks at them before his eyes widen at her. Snickering a little at him, she rotates her wrist in an impatient gesture. But she's not irritated, that much is clear. He just reminded her of Dobby receiving a sock. Those big innocent eyes, it was too much damned cute! Cheeks tingling with heat, her gaze fixes to the side as she unnecessarily shifts the book around, moving it in a circles and clearing her throat minutely before looking back up.

Just when she thought she had her fill, this boy (she's pretty sure, at least. Not that it really matters) has put the flip-flops on the wrong feet, an adorable scowl complete with pooched lip is adorning his face. She blinks before continuing to observe his plight until finally he switches the shoes, puffing in relief. Maka is fighting the goofy grin, her lips twitching stupidly.

"Feel better?" Her amusement noticeably lightens her timbre, making her voice both airy and thick as her brows tick upward.

He sighs, taking steps in place to test the foot coverings in satisfied contentment before looking back to her, ready to thank her and enjoy the comfort of these semi-cushy things on his feet. The boy gasps. Her orbs are even brighter, reflecting the sun as her smile lines them in subtle joy. It's beautiful and he finds that his voice won't work no matter how much his mouth opens and closes.

Crona can't see her and speak at the same time. Hiding the color of his cheeks, he mutters his gratitude, pressing through the difficulty to not sound like a preteen going through puberty. She giggles at the boy/girl... this person. He is just too precious, she can't help it. And, he's still here. Still trying to speak, wearing something she may or may not have worn. Maka's heart warms a bit. For once, the girl doesn't feel so frigid.