The sky simmers blue-hot and the world warps and twists and somehow the scene strikes Maka as almost menacing, this summer day so bright and burning it could almost be considered an oven, minus the confining metal walls. She draws a hand across her forehead and quickens her step. The bookstore is only just across the street; perhaps she'll hole up there for a little while to take refuge from the heat. Besides, she'd been wanting to buy a great big stack of novels anyhow. Her purse hangs heavy at her hip.

She opens the door and immediately a wave of wonderfully cold, book-scented air envelops her. She can't help the way her eyes close and her lips curve upwards, because coming to the bookstore is like coming home. For a moment, she stands in the doorway, scoping out the shiny new bestsellers, before delving into the depths of the store, where most of the books reside.

She browses indeterminately, picking out biographies and fantasies and anything in between until her feet take her to the poetry aisle. There's already someone there. A hipster-looking guy, tall and lanky, with the most obnoxious glasses she's ever seen in her life. He gives her a disinterested glance as she approaches but otherwise doesn't acknowledge her.

Maka settles into a crouch and begins perusing the titles on the lower shelves, running her fingers over the books. She doesn't know the first thing about poetry, really, but now is as good a time as any to start getting familiar with it. She's always meant to read some, but where to begin? There's so many poets, from so many different times and places. Maka huffs and stands, her hands on her hips. She eyeballs the shelves and decides to pick one at random. A violently red book on the top shelf catches her eye. She smiles in satisfaction. It's not too thick, not too thin. Perfect. She approaches the shelves and stands on her tiptoes, but to no avail; at five foot four, no amount of reaching will get her anywhere near where she wants to go. With a sigh, she turns towards the stranger. "Could you get that book for me?" she asks, pointing.

His eyes flick to hers, looking vaguely annoyed behind the glasses. "Which one?" he asks. His voice is surprisingly low and raspy for such a skinny guy. She gestures again. "The red one."

He ambles towards her, squinting. His hair is white, she notices abruptly. Probably dyed. Hipsters. She barely suppresses a roll of her eyes.

"Ah? Oh…that one?"

"Yep."

He reaches upward, long knobby fingers closing around the book. "If you're sure," he says, and is that an undercurrent of…scorn in his voice? It's something, that's for sure, and she frowns as she takes in his expression, the way he almost seems to be looking down his nose at her all of a sudden, like she's something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

Maka narrows her eyes. "Is there a problem?"

The stranger shrugs. "Nope."

"Then can I have my book, please?"

Wordlessly, he holds it out to her, and now there's no mistaking it, that's derision right there lurking in his eyes, in his posture, in the set to his mouth. Maka snatches her book from him and glares. "Thank you very much," she says coolly, and then turns around, all too willing to leave the stupid hipster douche to his own devices.

Behind her, he scoffs. Within that single exhalation is contained a world of scorn and a big steaming pile of pretentious bullshit. Then he mutters something under his breath. Maka stops in her tracks and then turns around. "Did you say something?"

"Nope," he says easily, not even bothering to turn around.

"Liar."

At that, he throws a baleful glance over his shoulder before turning back to the shelves. "Whatever. Now go away, I'm trying to read."

Maka frowns. "What's your problem?" she asks, irritation blooming hot and heady beneath her skin.

"I could ask you the same thing, Tiny Tits."

"What did you just call me?"

"Shit, woah, hey," he says, because her books are on the floor and her hand is fisted in his shirt and she's glaring up at him, deliberately invading his personal bubble. "Let go of me, woman!" he hisses.

"Tiny Tits," she seethes, "is not something you say to a person you just met. Got it, old man?"

He looks visibly affronted, but despite the flush in his cheeks he backs off. "Yeah, sure, whatever," he mumbles, and, satisfied, Maka lets go of his shirt. She turns around and gathers up her books and for a second time, prepares to leave, and would have if not for the two words he mutters under his breath to her retreating back: "Fucking philistine."

The insult is so incredibly pretentious, so incredibly judgmental and ignorant and stupid that it sets her off. "Just shut up already!" Maka hisses, and without another word shoves him backwards as hard as she can. He makes a noise like a bird being stepped on and stumbles back right into a shelf, arms pinwheeling wildly.

It's like the world has slowed down to half its normal speed. Maka can only watch in abject horror as the shelf full of books topples. The aisles are narrow, and so it knocks into the one behind it, and the next one, and the next one, creating an awful domino effect of falling bookcases. From farther away in the store, someone screams. Maka's breath catches and she hopes with all her might the person wasn't buried. When the last thud fades away and the store settles into the loudest silence she'd ever heard, Maka rounds on her antagonist, sprawled on his back amidst volumes of classic poetry. "This is all your fault!" she hisses.

He splutters, sitting up. His beanie has slipped off his head and his glasses are crooked, she notes with satisfaction. "My fault?! You're the one who-"

"What," a new voice interrupts, "the hell happened here?"

As one, Maka and Hipster Douche turn towards the new voice. It's a woman, with short pink hair and an absolutely livid expression on her dainty features. "You know what?" she hisses. "I don't care. I do not care. In fact, I want you both out!"

She shrieks the last word, brandishing her fists, and Maka and Hipster Douche don't need telling twice. They bolt as fast as they can, the woman hot on their heels. Maka yelps as she feels a book slam into her back. "OUT!" screeches the woman. "And don't come back!"

The door slams shut behind them, and Maka finds herself once more beneath the baking summer sun. Without a word, she turns on her heel and strides as fast as she can away from the stranger. It's only when she gets home that she allows herself to cry.

/

They meet again a few days later, quite by accident. Maka is running late to class, and she's got a coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other and is most definitely not looking where she's going. So she's startled when she collides directly into him, startled enough that her coffee flies from her cup to his face, startled enough that her books go flying everywhere and she trips over her own feet and falls to the ground. "Shit," she hisses, "crap crap crap I'm sorry – oh. It's you."

For a few long moments, they stare at each other: Hipster Douche's eyes are wide and he's dripping in pumpkin spice mocha latte. Maka fights down the urge to laugh (meanly) as she gets to her feet and sets about gathering her things, determinedly not looking at him.

"…I guess I deserved that."

She freezes. Slowly, her eyes travel upwards. Hipster Douche is red in the face, one hand on the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sorry about the other day," he mumbles. "I just…ugh, I can't believe you'd want to buy a book by Justin Law!"

"Who's Justin Law?" Maka asks, nonplussed.

Hipster Douche looks at her blankly. "You don't…oh, damn…uh…"

"Well?"

"Well, he's…damn, he's basically…I mean, calling him a poet is way better than what his writing actually is," he says. "Have you read his stuff? Anyone who likes it is either crazy or stupid or probably both."

Maka's mouth twists downward. "I think he's pretty good, actually," she says icily, and then shoulders her way past him. She doesn't have time for his bullshit right now.

"Nngh, fuck, no, I, wait, I'm trying to apologize, dammit!" he says, and grabs her shoulder, turning her to face him. "Look, I may have come off like a real dick in the store and I'm sorry, okay? And I'm even sorrier I got you banned; I mean I see you around there a lot and you always look so happy…" His face turns an even brighter shade of red. "Just, uh…can you forgive me?"

Maka sighs tiredly. "I'll think about it, okay? Now can I go to class?"

Without waiting for his reply, she turns around and continues on her way. Now she's really late. She hopes that this is the last time she sees his stupid face.

/

The third time they meet, Maka is in the library, a textbook in front of her and headphones in her ears. As a result, she doesn't hear it when he approaches her, and it's only the unceremonious dumping of a multitude of books on top of her reading material that prompts her to look up, prepared to give whoever interrupted her study time one hell of a verbal beatdown. But the words die on her lips as she finds herself staring into the smirking visage of none other than Hipster Douche himself. "What are you doing," she asks flatly instead, pausing her music and glaring.

Hipster Douche slides into the seat across from her. "Broadening your horizons."

"Are you coming on to me?"

"What?! No," he splutters, his face turning bright red. Maka smirks, and his head slides down his arms to unceremoniously rest on the table. "I just, you don't seem the type who reads poetry on a regular basis," he mumbles against the surface.

"What makes you say that?"

He actually perches his glasses on the top of his dyed white hair to fix you with a look. "Dunno, maybe it's the hair," he says sardonically.

"What's wrong with my hair?!" Maka says, tugging at her pigtails.

"You seem to wear them unironically."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, no…you know what, forget it."

"Gladly."

"Anyway," says Hipster Douche, sitting up, "I brought you these. Poetry. The good stuff. Classic and contemporary. I think you'll like these way more than that Justin Law crap."

Maka hums, picking one up at random and sifting through it. "Why are you doing this?"

Hipster Douche's shoulders lift. "Because I'm still sorry, I guess. And maybe because I'm beginning to realize that I've kind of turned into a pretentious douchebag." He takes off the glasses. "Don't even need these, anyway."

Maka rolls her eyes and presses her lips together to suppress a reluctant smile. "Yeah, okay, whatever," she says. "I'll check them out."

He actually grins at that. "Cool," he says, and stands.

"By the way, do you have a name? I can't go around calling you 'Hipster Douche' forever."

He narrows his eyes. "I'll let that one slide," he grumbles. "I'm Soul."

"Maka," she says.

"Well, I guess I'll see you round, Maka," he says, and gives her a little wave before disappearing amongst the shelves.

"Yeah," Maka murmurs. "See you."

Her eyes stray to the pile of poetry books he left her. After a few moments, she picks up a volume, leans back in her chair, and begins to read.