"What?"

Maka's lips curve and now she's definitely smiling, a soft, warm, slightly wondering thing, but she doesn't say anything. He begins to feel a little self-conscious. "Why're you looking at me like that?" he asks suspiciously, and Maka blinks, color staining her cheeks as she takes a step backwards, disentangling herself from his embrace.

"Nothing," she says to the ground.

He tilts his head, one hand lifting to his still-tingling lips. "Hah? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Maka says, shaking her head, her eyes still stubbornly refusing to meet his.

"Then…uh, what the hell's going on?"

Maka inhales deeply through her nose, eyes squeezing shut. It's almost as if she's steeling herself.

"It's not your fault," she says, eyes still closed. "But…oh my God, this is going to sound so stupid…"

He tilts his head, utterly baffled.

"You look adorable when you blush," she whispers.

He blinks.

"Drummers don't blush," he blurts, because it's all he can think to say. Both hands reach up to cover his cheeks, even as heat rushes to them and pools bright and shining beneath his palms. His head tilts downward, and as if to make the situation even more painful, his sunglasses fall from the top of his head to the tip of his nose.

So. Uncool. Members of the drum line are not supposed to act like this, dammit! "Don't look at me," he grumbles, sliding his hands farther up his face to his hairline.

Maka's attempt to stifle her laugh is unsuccessful.

"Ah, shut up," he says, voice muffled by his palms. A few moments later, her hands close around his wrists and gently tug his hands from his face.

"I like it," she says softly, and he opens his eyes. Her face is close, green eyes shining deep and dark like the sea. She plucks his sunglasses from his nose and puts them on her own head.

"You drummers are so obsessed with being cool," she mumbles as her mouth meets his. "Y'need to light'n up."

He grins and nips her bottom lip, relishing her soft gasp of surprise. "This coming from the notoriously uptight trombone section leader herself."

"Shut up, drummer boy. All you do is hit things."

"Mmm…that's not very nice…"

He traces a line of kisses from her mouth to the side of her neck, hands sliding from her shoulders to her waist to her hips. His teeth graze her neck. She shivers, head tilting back, her weight shifting as she presses up against the wall. Her hands comb through his hair and then one hand gently cups his chin and lifts it, guiding his lips to hers. He grins into the kiss.

"Shh," she hisses, but it lacks venom.

Slowly, his hands creep up her body to cautiously cup the small breasts hidden beneath her bibbers. He braces, waiting for her to gasp and pull away and maybe hit him with a hardcover. But she does none of those things, instead kisses him harder, and he shivers because-

"What the fuck?!"

The two of them spring apart as if burned. There, silhouetted by the streetlamp, is none other than Blake,Soul's fellow drummer. He's still in his uniform, bright turquoise hair sticking up every which way. For a few dumbstruck, horrified moments they stare at each other, Blake's wide eyes darting between Soul and Maka.

"Run," Soul hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

Maka doesn't need telling twice. Her footsteps pound away towards the entrance on the other side of the band hall. Blake appears to be lost for words, something that's never happened before in the course of their friendship. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes wide and angry and fixed on Soul's. He swallows.

"YOU TRAITOR!" Blake shouts suddenly, and he jumps. "SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! YOU'VE BROUGHT SHAME UPON US ALL!"

His hand darts out and closes around Soul's ear before he can react. "We're going to see Kid," he hisses, yanking Soul downward. "This is unbelievable. I thought we were solid. You betrayed us. What part of trombone equals sworn enemy do you not understand?!"

"The sworn enemy part," Soul grumbles, but only to himself. He yelps as Blake tugs his ear, pulling him around the building and towards impending doom.