To think of a name for the color of Soul's eyes, she'll actually have to look at him, but that's not easy anymore because they've regressed to pretending not to steal glances when the other isn't looking. Maka has to settle on analyzing memories of his eyes, and she's not good at remembering things. Frustration at its finest is the word being right there, right on the tip of her tongue, on the verge of being, in her periphery where things don't come back.

But Soul isn't something fleeting like that. He always stays.

"Hey, Maka?" he's sitting on his side of the bed. If she closes her eyes she can picture him, his elbows probably on his knees, looking over his shoulder at her.

It's been three days since the bomb drop. She's not even mad anymore, just hurt - hurt and scared of what the change in the current running between them means. Making up could be easy, if she allowed it, but the next morning she had let his apologies fall on deaf ears. Ever since then, he's been trying to iron out their rough patches by going out of his way to do extra nice things for her, like fluffing her pillows and feeding Blair, but Maka isn't having it.

She hates that about herself, that she can't open up.

"Maka? Maaakaaa…"

She pretends not to hear him, punishing both of them by giving him the cold shoulder. The thought of throwing Blair at him has her arms twitching instinctively, but she thinks twice about that - Blair shouldn't have to endure trauma even if Soul does deserve the worst allergy attack he'll ever have in his life.

Not receiving a response, the bed shifts as he rises and walks around to plop himself down a safe distance away from her.

"Maka? Do you want to-"

"Get bent, Soul," she snaps, Blair hissing in solidarity. "Jump off the ship or something."

There's stunned silence but nothing else. No snarky rebuttal, no surprised gasp, no dip of the bed as he storms out, chased away by her bluntness.

Maka dares to look at him, and the first thing she notices is that one side of his mouth is hiked up higher than the other, that he's sporting devilish stubble. Has it really been that long since she last looked him in the face?

"I really messed up, huh?" He says it mostly to himself, amazed and frustrated.

She continues to stroke Blair's head. "I don't take peace offerings."

"I know… I know." He stretches out on the floral duvet, arms above his head.

Maka feels her will buckle a little. If she weren't holding onto her anger, she'd lay down next to him, maybe wiggle herself into his side and let herself be lulled by his nearness and the ship rocking with the waves.

As much as it pains her to admit, Blake was probably right - she's a little bit stupid. She took a hit to the head, and ever since then, she can't think or feel right.

She stares at her reflection in the big mirror that hangs across the room. In this light, her eyes are a glimmering green, uprooting something important that lurks in her periphery. Knowing she has to wait for it to float to the surface, if it ever does, she watches her brows knit together. "What happens next in your story? When the girl and the boy dance at the ball?"

"They just fit together, like the stars and the night sky. They're happy."

Her back aches from the effort of holding herself upright - maybe this is her muscle's way of telling her she's losing the battle, that she should relent and ask him to hold her. That would be new, something fleeting because he'd have to let go sometime, but it would be okay. It could be a reoccurring thing, both temporary and permanent.

Bending down to let Blair run around on the floor, Maka turns to look at Soul. "We fight a lot."

"Sort of…"

"And it's your fault."

"You really don't ever compromise," he laughs, his dimple endearing from this angle. He props himself up on his elbows to stare at her, probably ecstatic that she's finally talking to him instead of closing the door in his face as he begs for her attention. "Wanna know something?"

She's grinning from ear to ear. "No."

"Each time we fight is like the first time. So, we technically always get along."

"Or, it just means we never make up," she quips, poking his knee. "You have twenty-four hours to make it up to me."

"Deal."

X

Grinning wickedly, Soul swings a leg over the guard railing on the watch platform and pauses to look back at her. In the moon's glow, his eyes are bright against the horizon's darkness. "I'm gonna jump off."

"You. Are. Not," Maka shouts, crossing her arms.

"But you told me to," is his reply, lifting one hand into the air, probably trying to feel the wind slip through his fingers.

"You're going to fall, Soul, get down here right now!"

"I'm gonna jump. That's what you told me to do."

Figures Soul would find a way to turn a comment she made in anger into something literal and snarky and bullheaded. Maka could curse, but that's not going to get him to do what she wants. She has to play it cool.

"What am I supposed to tell your brother if I get there without you?"

Soul says nothing. Maka watches him stare out at the vast nothingness stretched out in front of them, his hair rippling in the wind. The lonely sight triggers an ache somewhere deep within herself, something wistful and full and beautiful. It's one of those ephemeral feelings that replays in odd loops, but she won't let that stop her from basking in its glory.

"Once upon a time, the boy would have probably jumped," Soul admits, searching the sky. It's direct, genuine, and the most open he's ever been with her. "But somehow he got stronger and didn't let those feelings kill him. He survived, and he doesn't really remember how he managed that, even if he's still doing it. I bet the girl could relate, right?"

Maka feels her face crumple, cheeks hot with tears. Funny how she can only think clearly when she hasn't slept for almost twenty-four hours, Soul filling every moment with his apologetic touches, ones that seem to stay seared on her skin even when he's a few feet away.

Of course she understands what he means. She's the one with the faulty memories, with no recollection of her mama's perfume, or the stories papa would read to her, or how she ended up on the orphanage's doorstep with a blistering headache. She can't help but think that this was the reason he dragged her out here, so he could add this aside to their story.

"Mhm…" When she gulps, it feels like she's swallowing glass.

"So, I think it sounds right that the girl doesn't remember. Maybe she doesn't need to. I don't think horrors like that are supposed to stay with us. It would be too much to carry around."

She can feel her heart breaking. Her face is wet, her legs wobbly.

"Yeah…. so you don't have to tell Wes anything, I'll be there." He brings his leg back onto the ship, leaning against the railing instead, beckoning her. "Want to come up here with me?"

She could, but she's not done crying, and she's not ready for him to see her like this just yet.

X

"My, what a vision of beauty," Wes Evans drawls when Soul and Maka finally step onto land days later. She meets his outstretched hand, biting down on her lip to restrain a semi-charmed, amused giggle while he kisses her hand and bows down. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maka."

"I've heard so many wonderful things," she laughs.

Wes's face is nothing but shock. "You don't say! And - oh, who's this precious thing?"

"This is Blair. Say 'hi,' Blair!"

"I'm here, too," a disgruntled Soul grumbles behind them, dragging over their luggage.

Wes looks over Maka's head. "Hello, dear brother! Come closer so I can kiss you, too. I was worried – our wonderful parents thought you had run away. They had no idea you had left early."

In the split second of silence, Maka can tell Soul is rolling his eyes behind her, that he's contorting his mouth. "Nevermind."

The brothers' reunion isn't the big emotional event she imagined from how reverently Soul speaks about his brother when he isn't busy holding a grudge against his parents. The two men approach each other, shake hands, and though Soul protests, Wes drags him into a bear hug that Soul returns briefly before pulling away, brushing off his coat like the contact dirtied it.

Wes leans in close to Maka as they make their way out of the station. "My little brother was born with a scowl, you see. But it's all an act. He's a softie."

Maka finds herself beaming at an unsuspecting Soul, who is cursing at the luggage, glad she seems to know Soul as well as someone who's known him since before Soul has known himself.

Ever the gentlemen, Wes leads them to the shiny car he drove in to pick them up, helps a star-struck Maka climb in, and strolls over to watch Soul accommodate their things in the trunk. Loading it should only take three seconds, but the two men linger. Maka knows eavesdropping isn't polite – it's an invasion of privacy, a break in the trust between herself and Soul. But no matter how much she tries to tune out the world, she hears Wes say in a regretful, muffled voice, "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you from our parent's decisions."

When she dares to peek behind her, Wes has a comforting hand on Soul's shoulder, and Soul's heartbreak is written all over his face.

X

Wes Evans stands a few inches taller than Soul, laughs more openly, speaks his mind eloquently, and never slouches. These comparisons are made by Soul to Maka in a resentful mutter while Wes gives them a tour of his house on the hill. It's much too big for a bachelor who loves to entertain and go for walks in the city, Wes explains – all of which Soul points out are stark differences to him.

"Soul, shhh," she scolds out of the side of her mouth as Wes shows them the view from the balcony. "You're not your brother. Stop being so hard on yourself."

There Soul's hand goes again, rubbing the back of his neck instead of finding hers. He purses his lips but stops the rant – at least aloud. From the way the muscles by his temples twitch as his brother raves about the art pieces on the walls, Maka can only imagine all the ways he's berating himself.

She wants to smack him upside the head and follow it up with a kiss to the check. But one of those is inappropriate. At this point, she's not sure which.

The eldest Evans brother is a business tycoon. Like father, like son. The recent plunge in the stock market seemed to have affected everyone in the world except the Evans family. Maka had felt out of place at the Evans estate, and Wes's house is no exception. Even her hair is disheveled and gross in comparison to the new-looking mop the servant in the kitchen is using when they walk through. Wes treats her like royalty, going out of his way to open doors, bow, and announce her presence when they enter a room where a maid is cleaning.

Maka hides her red cheeks. "You don't have to do that."

"Nonsense," Wes booms. The louder he is, the more sullen Soul becomes. Watching him fade into the background, less noticeable than wallpaper, makes Maka's heart sink. Wes apparently detects this change, too, because he leads them to the other end of the house, where a piano sits in a second living room. "Play for us, little brother."

"I only play at concerts and in empty music halls when I practice," comes Soul's automatic reply.

"You're still doing that? Brother, music is to be enjoyed. It's not just a chore."

"He played something called Jazz!" Maka pipes in, reaching out to squeeze Soul's arm. "He was really good at it too, everyone loved it."

Wes's pride fills the room. "Really? You never stray from classical, like the good son our parents wanted! You should play some Jazz for us right now, little brother."

But Soul is dead set on upholding his self-imposed rules. Wes frowns, adjusts his rolled up sleeves, and shows Maka to her room while Soul drifts away to sulk.

"I hope you're comfortable enough to make yourself at home, Miss Maka." Wes leans against the doorframe while Maka takes in the four poster canopy bed and silky window curtains, awed and brushing off the feeling that in a different life she lived in a similar luxury. "Please excuse my brother's childish behavior."

Maka plumps down onto the bench at the end of the four poster bed. "It's fine. I'm used to his mood swings."

"He's an emotional one. Most musicians are. He wears his hopes and dreams on his sleeves but pretends not to care about anything. And then he implodes from the pressure of it all." Of course Wes knows his brother. This all sounds familiar. "He's what you call 'emotionally constipated'."

Laughing rejuvenates her. "Thanks, Wes. I'll remember that."

With a little satisfied smirk, Wes excuses himself, coming back a fraction of a second later to remind her dinner's at six. Maka bathes, picks a semi-presentable dress to wear from her carry-on, starts drafting a letter to Blake, and carefully constructs a nest for Blair to sleep in after they're done playing with a ball of yarn. The whole rooms aches with Maka's longing to find Soul and yell and and cry and run her fingers through his hair and make herself a permanent part of him.

But she has discipline and doesn't do any of it.

Sitting beside him at the dinner table doesn't help.

Wes is an excellent conversationalist – Maka is sure Soul is narrating a self-defeating story of how he's never said a coherent thing in his life because Wes hoarded all the ideal inheritable qualities. She wants to 'accidentally' kick Soul but instead smiles and nods while Wes delves into the Evans family's current state of affairs.

"Ah, but see, Miss Maka, I'm successful on paper, but I'm a failure according to my beloved parents." He heaves a fake ashamed sigh, pursing his lips. "I've never married. I'm in my thirties - a decrepit old man."

Maka leans forward as if to wrap him in a protective hug. Unfortunately, the table is between them, but she's not one to hold back her caring instincts. "You still have time to find someone!"

"No, and that's quite fine. I've never been in love." The man shrugs and it reminds her so much of Soul that she swells with the ache of missing him even though he's right beside her, quietly listening. "I don't mind not being married, but you must know that appearances are everything to my parents, Miss Maka. Tell me, do you dream of marrying someday?"

Hopefully her cheeks don't give her away – they're burning up like a lit candle. Admitting that spending the last few weeks traveling across the world with Soul felt a lot like being married. That partnership aspect of having someone to both rely on and care for must be what holds a marriage together, but since she only hazily remembers her parents' marriage, she doesn't know. Memories of her mama and papa dancing like newlyweds clashes with those of them red-faced and yelling about cheating and lying; Maka doesn't know how both accounts could be true.

All that aside, she can't not think of Soul when she thinks of the future. He's not her other half, like most books she reads depict romances, but her confidant, supporter - her soulmate. With him she feels more secure, like she's finally come home to a place she's never been to before but wants to stay forever. Only Soul can infuriate her to the point of wanting to pull her hair out and also provoke fever dreams of pulling his hair while her teeth gently bite down on his neck.

It would be a lie to say she's never thought of being married to Soul. They've been asked too many times for her not to imagine it. Denying that little voice in the back of her head would be criminal, damning even. It's been whispering sweet nothings at her about waking up next to Soul every day until she doesn't wake up ever again, of being a family with him. But Maka's a smart girl – the future is uncertain, and who knows where they'll be when this trip is over?

Soul's already showing signs of pushing her away as it is. She can feel it beginning to boil as the night wears on.

"I'd like to get married one day," she says, sucking in a breath.

Wes, satisfied with her answer, looks over to Soul. "What about you? Have you changed your mind about marriage?"

Maka dares to flint her eyes over to him. He's slouched in his chair, sunken low with his arms crossed, nonchalant. "… It doesn't matter anymore."

The vying look the brothers share makes Maka feel like she's both intruding on a moment and left out of an important conversation. Soul avoids eye contact with her for the remainder of the dinner, excusing himself in a rush after his third slice of apple pie. Even in heels, Maka is fast enough to catch up to him, not sure what's going to come out of her mouth – she has so much to say. She wants to sleep beside him because she misses the way he curls up with his cheek against her back, and she wants to shake him until he reveals all his secrets.

Something like a mixture of those two impulses slips out when she grabs his wrist: "Wait a minute, wait for me – what's going on?"

There is regret in his eyes. "Nothing."

"Liar," she says easily, squeezing him tighter. "You've been upset ever since we arrived, and I know it has something to do with your parents. Is there something I can do to help?"

"You could let me go."

Not this again. She's already lived through this - they've made up. It's not fair that they keep going backwards.

Maka doesn't know what tugs at her heartstrings more: Soul's resolve in saying that, or that he turns on his heel and walks away without looking back when she loosens her grip.

X

Hurt clings to her like suffocating lint, a headache creeping on as she holds her breath, trying not to cry. It wouldn't fix anything. She won't weep, no, because that would make her feel more alone, so she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut. She's simultaneously missing Soul and cursing his name when there's an unexpected knock on the door, making her yank the covers over her head and hiss like Blair would if she weren't busy sleeping at the foot of the bed.

Of course it's Soul. They can't seem to stay apart.

"Maka?"

She bites her tongue.

"Can I come in?"

If she bites down any more, she might draw blood.

"I'm sorry…"

'Headstrong' is a word that's been used too many times to describe her, but this time, she's the exact opposite. One thing about having Soul in her life is she can't bottle up her feelings as well she used to. It's both a gift and a nuisance. Before she can decide to upkeep her resolve to harden her heart, her feet are hitting the embellished carpet, taking her to the door. She throws the it open and dives into the hallway, head snapping either way before spotting him five feet away to her left, staring.

"You!" she whisper-screams. "You're – you're rude and hurtful and I don't deserve to be treated like a stranger!"

"I'm an idiot," he groans, holding his arms out. "Maka, I'm - well... Oh God, I don't know - I'm all over the place. I don't know how to say this, but-" He stops like he's in pain, like he might cry. It's fascinating. "Do you trust me?"

She clenches her jaw, nodding begrudgingly although she wants to say, "You can't leave and keep coming back, that's not how it works. Don't come back if you can't stay."

But none of that's true - she'd only be lying to herself. She wants to keep him, even if at times his closeness is fleeting.

Soul winces, probably reading her thoughts like a music score. "There's something my parents are making me do. I don't know how to stop it."

"Tell me."

"It'll make sense at the ball, when my story's finished. I promise." He puts his hands on his head, resigned. "If you still want to hear it, that is…"

While her anger is fading, her feelings for him aren't - they're overwhelming, and grant her patience. She holds her breath, counts to five forwards and backwards, and lets the hurt go. "I'm not going anywhere, Soul. I'm right here. Whatever secrets you have, I want to hear them."

She knows it's not even a fraction of the truth – she wants to know everything about Soul, even the insignificant things like what his favorite number is, or if his lips are as warm as his hands, but right now it's past midnight and they could be dreaming together.

He nods once to seal the ceasefire.

Maka is a firm believer in superstitions and never going to bed angry. Even in her sleep she hasn't been without Soul the last couple of weeks. Maybe he's a habit. It's not that she's lonely, or scared in this strange, big, empty house, but missing Soul won't let her sleep. It's like her skin knows he's close and her nerve endings are crying out for him.

"Come sleep with me?"

Maybe it's not right. They're in his brother's house, rumors will surely spread like they did on the ship, and they have no excuses to fall back on for sharing a bed. And their problems aren't settled. But still, Maka leads them to the guest bed, their footsteps soft like they're asking the ground to keep their secret.

Soul's arms around her feels so right. She closes her eyes to his murmurings of sorry sorry sorry sorry in her ear, and she's already gone before she can whisper back that he owes her too many explanations to count.

Maybe it's the memory loss. Or that she has too many soft spots for him.

X

New York city is bustling, chaotic, and beautiful. Maka falls in love with its aura just as she's reminded why Soul's beauty is unparalleled. He sits back and watches her with a hesitant, dreamy look while she gasps at the tuxedos at the boutiques Wes chauffeurs them to.

"Soul, our whole purpose for coming into the city was to get you something to wear for the ball," Wes says sternly. When the only response he receives is Soul rolling his eyes in a half-teasing way, he goes on to say, "What are you planning to wear, if not something new?"

"That pinstrip-"

Wes makes a retching noise that makes Maka giggle. "Dear Lord, don't do that! It's wretched."

"It's a cool suit. I'm wearing it."

"No… no, no." Wes starts pacing back and forth. He could burn a trail in the flooring with how intently he's brainstorming. "Please don't wear that. It would bring shame to the family, and you know how great our reputation is. How about this nice tux? It's dark blue and would go swell with your red bowtie-"

Soul's expression doesn't betray any emotion. "'Shame to the family'? You're kidding, right?"

Smirking, Wes winks, nodding his head but responding with a high pitched, "Don't sass me, young man."

"Yes, Mother." Soul digs his hands deeper into his coat pockets and slumps into the chair he's been lounging in while Wes and Maka fawned over the clothing. "But really Wes, I'm an adult and I want to wear what I want to wear."

The look of horror that mars Wes's face only intensifies the hilarity of the moment. This must be what having a family is like. The brotherly banter only reminds Maka of Blake and she's upset all over again, overcome with missing him and Shibusen and even Auntie. She's drawn out of the misery when Wes mentions her name: "Soul, you can't wear that tux to the ball. It'll embarrass Miss Maka."

She snaps out of it. "Oh – oh, uh, how would it…?"

Wes looks between them, perplexed. "I imagine that as his date, you'd want him to wear something presentable."

Blood rushes to her head and she can only think about the way Soul doesn't look at her, the

way he goes still. Her mouth doesn't seem to work anymore, but she hears herself say, "We're - oh, we're not exactly going together like that."

"We're going together as friends," Soul interjects, poker face activated.

"Oh. Okay," Wes says, clearly not believing it.

X

"I didn't know you were still taking me to the ball," Maka says boldly a little while later when Wes is being fitted for a dashing new tux. Nothing had caught his eye while shopping, so the next best thing was to have something custom-made. The house is silent save for the clamor in Wes's dressing room. In the hallway right outside of it, Maka sits on the bench, back pressed up against the wall. Her feet don't touch the floor, and she sways her legs back and forth slowly while she and Soul marinate in their charged silence.

"I mean, if you still want to go with me, I'd love to take you." He's leaned against the wall nonchalantly across from her, a leg bent and foot rested on the wall. It's the exact pose a troublemaker would strike. Maka thinks of nothing but marching right over and pulling him down by the collar and sliding her mouth over his until all of his secrets are out in the open.

The thought is highly improper. She pushes it away and smooths down her dress over her thighs. "I don't know how to dance, much less waltz."

Soul laughs for the first time since they arrived, and it has her blood burning - she's missed it. "I should have known."

"Hmmph! It's not because I'm not good at it. I've just never had the chance," she justifies, defensive. Soul would never look down on her for not knowing something, but she's been on the edge living at Wes's and being surrounded by fine china and extravagant centerpieces. She can't help but not belong, can't help feeling defensive.

Oh, she's missed Soul's gentleness. He's as soft as silk, as endearing as a love letter. Something about his willingness to help her makes her heart swell. "That's okay. I'm out of practice too. I could, uh, teach you?"

It wouldn't be smart. He has demons who have already decided to keep him and Maka apart, to keep them within sight but not within reach. Going back and forth, turning on and off – it's damaging, it's killing her slowly and quietly. It's like drowning in sand. In this case, Soul is her sand. Maka doesn't think she can get enough. Even with the signs that he's becoming something transitory, she doesn't care about consequences as long as she can get her fix.

And of course, the adventurous daredevil in her can't let the challenge slip away.

She stands up and closes the space between them, holding out her hand. "Dance with me?"

"Right now?" His cool is gone. It's her nearness that gets him, and she knows it and uses it as leverage.

"Mhmm. The ball is in a few weeks, right? We need all the time we can get."

Soul looks at her, doesn't look at her, digs his hands out of his pockets, the internal struggle apparent on his face. She wishes her bravery extended to telling him how she feels about him, how shutting her out makes her feel abandoned all over again. Longing rumbles within her, deprived and malnourished, desperate to reclaim what's not quite yet lost - Soul.

Heat floods her like smoldering lava when he carefully rests a palm on her hip, his fingers lacing between hers. The whole room shudders with her as Soul asks her to follow him because he's leading the dance, asks her to trust him. His hands are soft, never harsh. There is no music, no sound, nothing but gravity drawing them closer.

A distraction. She needs one. "Will there be music at the ball?"

"Mhmmm," he hums. "An orchestra."

"And they're going to play Jazz?"

No, no - there's different types of music, he explains, and it blow's Maka's mind. She squints at him as they dance, at his long lashes, at his lips, at the memory bubbling to the surface from the depths of her mind. In it, gold tiles gleam underneath her feet, and when she looks up to admire the glittering ceiling she finds she's still looking down at the floor.

She blinks, reality coming back into focus. "Is there going to be dancing? And people?"

"Yeah, it's a huge social gathering. Okay, go ahead and twirl when I raise my arm – that's too fast, Maka-"

"And waltzing is slow, not crazy fast," she finishes with him, not missing a beat. Her head hurts a little, like she's just had whiplash. "I feel like this has happened before. It's like deja vu."

The world goes upside down as he dips her. "Good."

X

"So now none of my dresses are good enough for this stupid party?"

Mouth hanging open, Soul freezes.

Standing akimbo, Maka taps her foot impatiently, staring him down with a sharp scowl. Part of her knows she's being irrational. Of course her hand-me-down dresses with the mismatched buttons and three-times mended seams aren't good enough for Spirit Albarn's ball. It's a commemoration to his dead daughter, for God's sake - dressing to the nines is to be expected, and anything less would be disrespectful.

Still, all the talk about Wes and Soul's parents have instilled paranoia in her, even though they can't see her from across the world. Appearances are everything to the people in the Evans's social circle, and it's a fact that she and Soul don't outwardly mesh well, what with her self-cut hair and his expensive vests. Is he suggesting taking her out shopping because he's ashamed of her scuffed, uneven heels?

Either way, she has to find things to be mad about, because she forgets - it's the combination of her memory loss and her feelings for him. And they still haven't talked about his last outburst. Between Wes dropping in on them when they think they're alone, and all the ongoing preparation for the event, there's been very little time to argue.

She almost misses it. It seems like they get along the best when they're in the middle of a shouting match, fighting to be heard, to meet the other in the middle.

"Maka, I'm not even good enough for this stupid party," he reasons. "No one is. But Spirit doesn't care about stuff like that. He just wants his daughter back."

That does an excellent job of shutting Maka up. It rings a bell - she can relate. Like Spirit, she wants so many things back - too many things.

Feeling melancholic, she shimmies into a sweater vest Soul tosses her way because it's too warm to wear the coat he had given her, and they step out into the sun together, the clouds rolling by overhead like spilled paint. For the nth time since she arrived, Maka can't help but notice how different life is here, how unreal it is to be here with Soul, how there's something off about him.

"It's weird not digging through snow to get somewhere," she offers, awkward in their silence when they're finally navigating the sidewalks in the city.

"Yeah, Shibusen is right next to the North Pole. I hate it," he says, gruff and resentful.

"Even the air feels different."

"You can actually breathe without your sinuses drying. It's incredible."

"I agree. And the people are different here, too."

"Probably because no one's freezing their bal-"

"And even you're different, Soul. You've been in an awful mood, even more awful than what your worst usually is!"

Stopping dead in his tracks, he shoves his hands into his pockets. "This is how I always am."

Maka turns on her heel to face him, the ends of her pigtails whipping her across the cheeks. "And you still haven't told me why you're being so sensitive lately."

"Because everything at the ball has to go right," he sighs, a tired look haunting his eyes.

Pedestrians pass by them, some barely running into them, others firing them annoyed looks, none of them picking up on the run-down desperation weighing on Soul.

Oh. She hadn't expected this type of vulnerability from him. "Why? I know performing makes you nervous, but it's okay if you make mistakes. Isn't that what music is?"

"No… not really, Maka." He does reward her efforts with an appreciative smile, the kind that softens all his worry lines. "I don't care about that for once."

"Talk to me - I'm right here, Soul. What's on your mind?"

One of his many talents include talking without making sense. He starts rambling about his parents and how they wouldn't allow pets in the house, how they decided Wes would inherit the family business without asking what he wanted first. It morphs into a disconnected rant about Spirit and a girl who was small but gentle in her stubbornness. She had bright eyes, a shape and color Soul had never seen before and won't forget, because he remembers too well.

It's a shame that he can't let go of his memories.

The ball isn't anything like deja vu for him.

Every year, Spirit indulges in too many drinks, crawls all over the furniture and his guests, crying, anguished, not caring that no one cares. People are cold, flocking into the man's house with fake sympathetic faces but gossiping behind his back. The more money people have, the less human it makes them - that's what Soul mutters darkly, the sharpness of his mouth curious to Maka.

"It makes me sick. This is the last year I'm going," he sums up.

Maka can't keep up, getting stuck on the details of the story, unable to read between the lines. "Why are people so terrible?"

Soul laughs in a bitter way. "So many people have tried to take advantage of Spirit... It's because he tells everyone that he thinks his daughter is alive, and that one day she'll show up at the ball. Everyone thinks he's a little bit mad, but he's rich and sloppy with his money, so there you go."

They're five blocks down before Maka realizes she has her arm around his, not remembering when it happened. Her resolve to stay away until he explained his outbursts lasted all but five seconds. She curses at herself for not being able to think about two things at once.

The bell chimes above their heads as Soul leads them into a small boutique crowded with dolled-up mannequins and an assortment of feathery and fluffy and puffy dresses. Maka knows better than to let go of his arm, than to interrupt his monologue. He's opening up, telling her a secret.

"And the worst part is, I think I'm a bad person, too, like those people."

She turns her head so fast she thinks she's strained her neck. "You're not like that, Soul-"

He shrugs like it's nothing. "There've been lots of time where con artists show up and pretend to be Spirit's daughter. They just want his money. It's hard to see."

"Oh," she breathes, overstimulated by their surroundings. There's something shouting at her, but it's too deep inside in her to be heard, and as she instinctively looks down to the ceiling and expects to still be seeing the floor, she feels less real.

It's deja vu all over again, expecting their overbright surroundings to turn dark and scary, for him to fade away. Maybe he already is.

"I mean, it's not like I need money… but there's something else I want, and if it turns out I'm right, that can't happen. But if I don't do it, I'd hate myself, too… I just don't want to be a bad person."

"You're not. You're infuriating, but not bad."

Soul doesn't react to her joke. "Have you been listening, Maka? Do you understand?"

Blinking at him, she can't help but want to smooth his hair out of his eyes and maybe shut them, because they're making it hard for her to think. "Of course!"

He frowns, and it makes her feel guilty for being too cheerful, for not being all here.

"So, each year, Spirit throws this ball for his daughter and hopes she'll hear about it and show up," she reiterates, to prove that she's had his undivided attention.

"Yeah... And this year I'm taking you."

Her eyes flicker to a pale pink dress hanging right behind him, admiring how it scintillates in the light. "Mhm, and we're going to dance together. You promised."

"Yeah… I always keep my promises."

"I know," she smiles, unsettled with how silence is taking him away from her. "Each time we dance together will be like the first time."

Listless, Soul slides his thumbs into his pockets, barely nodding. There's a fragile tranquility between them, one Maka needs to protect, even if it feels like they're holding their breaths as they sink into sand. Soon they'll be up to their noses, begging for air, but right now there's a disconnect as they stare at each other, the silence drowning them.

Focusing is hard.

He's looking at her, careful, his eyes dark in this brightness. "So, what do you think? About the ball?"

It's too crowded in this boutique. The mannequins give off an eerie vibe, never moving but closing in on them just like the thoughts in her head that are doing everything to avoid thinking about Spirit Albarn, who sounds just as lost as she is. "It's sad, Soul. It makes me sad. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Soul turns so she can't see his face, and it hurts her more than it should. It feels like he's closing one of those doors inside him, deciding she's not ready to see what's there. When he spins back around, he's cool and composed again, handing her the dress she's been eyeing. "I thought you liked fairy tales?"

"I do. They're my favorite… but they're not real. Some shouldn't be real."