the death sisters, everyone calls them. From Brooklyn, with love. If looks could kill, half the school would be goners.
Dylan's a little fascinated, but then again he's always a little fascinated by anything with even the faintest connection to the strange and morbid. Maka tells him he'd best stay away, that they're trouble. Dylan nods and smiles, but from the glances he continually shoots their way she can tell that they still exert a powerful pull over his mind.
(it's not like she's jealous of these blonde, buxom, badass newcomers, oh no. it's concern for her friend that makes her follow him around, hissing warnings in his ears. they've known each other since birth, after all, have played together, laughed together, cried together. it's only natural. only natural.)
when he first approaches them, he's smiling and smooth, those strange golden eyes half-lidded in what Maka calls his "creeper face." barely five words in and the taller one's fist flies hard and fast into his jaw, knocking him flat on the polished linoleum.
"I told you so," says Maka later, when they're sitting on the wall, gazing out over the bay. Dylan rubs his bruised face. "Mmm."
she glances at him. the sunset gives his face an orange cast, but his eyes have turned to something resembling molten gold and in them she can see
it's hot. she can taste summer in the warm, sticky air. her heels make contact with the cooling concrete one after the other in an endless dance, thudthud, thudthud, always a millisecond too late for synchronicity, for communication.
"they're no good," she says, but it comes out low and muted and unlike her normal tone at all.
"yeah," says Dylan, and even in his voice
"I know."
