He still cannot sleep even hundreds of miles away from home.
Anxiety – sharp as the edges of broken glass – slices through the surface and causes him to toss and turn so much he starts to get dizzy. His roommate's bear-like snoring also isn't much of a lullaby. He sneaks out the door just as the neon green alarm clock slides into two AM.
The light scent of cinnamon hits him as he heads toward the communal basement. He strolls past the series of tattered green coaches and pool tables and peeks into the kitchen. The smell swathes him as he turns the corner. It's a homey smell, he thinks, unlike the kinds he's known before; it is warm and dusted in brown sugar. It is comforting, and soft-edged and sweet.
Maka stands alone by the marble counter, her eyes intense on the aged recipe like it is written in a code.
Afraid to disturb her concentration, he stands by for a moment and observes until she has finished with the cream of tartar.
"Are you a nerd about everything that you do?" he says when it seems like it is safe to break the fragile silence.
She still jumps the slightest bit at the sound of his voice. She crosses her arms, but he sees a small hint of a smile forming. "If 'nerd' means focused then yes, I get this enthused about basically everything that I do. Now come help me finish." She shoves the bowl in his direction as she starts to roll tiny balls from the mix.
"Why are you awake so late on a school night?" he asks as he struggles to work with the dough.
"Well," she starts, "my mom and I always used to stay up late the night before the first day of school and bake. I just never kicked the habit, even though I haven't seen her since sophomore year of high school. It just calms me, I guess." She slides the rusted rack into the oven, which groans and struggles to life. "Why are you awake?"
"I'm always awake." He shrugs.
"Are you an artistic soul?" She leans against the counter and looks up into his flustered face. They gravitated toward each other without warning over the last few minutes.
"I guess you could say I'm artistic, and my name is Soul," he mumbles. His fingers twitch and he remembers the feeling of cool porcelain beneath them, staccato, dark rhythms from the back of his mind like bruised music – his favorite sort of sound.
He realizes how much shorter she is as they stand close in the quiet room. She has a small coating of powdered sugar on her nose and without thought he thumbs it off. Some of it flakes onto her lips, and for a moment he cannot look away. He has flashes of the night they met – of summery kisses and cheap beer – and hears a different tune in the back of his head, lighter than before. He breaks the tension after he abruptly pinches her nose.
She takes a few handfuls of flour and tosses it with a laugh, and it falls graceful over him like snow. He scoops some of the remnants at his socked feet and chucks it back in her direction. They go back and forth until the kitchen is as white as his hair and the oven screeches to indicate the snickerdoodles are finally ready, though he had forgotten they were there at all.
Maka slides them out and moves to sit beside him on the checkered – and heavily powdered - floor. She offers one to him and he grabs it, though it near-crumbles in his hand. They both take a bite at the same time. It is so sweet he swears he can feel cavities forming but it's worth it. He likes the taste of something homemade, especially from an old recipe that carries its weight through the years.
He turns when he hears her laugh. "You look like a ghost," she says. "You're literally all white."
He reaches over to pinch her nose again and she swats him away.
"You realize we have to clean all this, right?" She sighs. "And my first class is an eight AM."
He grins. "Yeah. My first class is also an eight AM. Being a freshman doesn't seem to have too many perks."
"Hmm. I think it was worth it." She takes another bite. "This is the best batch I've ever made."
"Tell yourself it was worth it when your alarm clock goes off."
"I'll have these for breakfast to remind myself why it was a good idea." Her eyes have an unfamiliar light when she grins, but a comforting one. There is an effervescence in her eyes that he's never quite witnessed – spring days and sunshine and bottomless viridian. It's unknown, but not the scary sort. He feels himself drawn to it. This is not trapped-in-a-dark-room anxiety, but the jump-before-the-fall kind of rush.
"I'll hold the dustpan and you sweep," he says. He tugs a pigtail.
"I figured you might be lazy."
"Not lazy, artistic."
She laughs full force and then leans back, eyes closed. They listen to summer's-end crickets in the bushes outside the open kitchen window, and embrace the last pieces of humidity that seep through the screen mesh.
She throws him a broom and grabs her own. "Your first college project. Aren't you glad I was your partner?"
"Couldn't have asked for anyone cooler."
She wonders why it is that they keep running into each other. She doesn't believe in fate, but running into the same snow-haired, shark-toothed boy over and over may bend her mind in that direction.
She plops down next to him at the lab table and throws him a quick grin. "Fancy meeting you in an eight AM ecology class."
"I wanted to get my lab over with." He scrunches his nose. "I hate science. It's my worst subject."
"I'm going to be a biology teacher, actually, so let me know if you need me to help you out." She opens her notebook and jots down the date.
He opens the book and sweeps through the first few chapters. She gets flickers of detailed drawings of dragonflies and swamp biospheres. "I might be a lost cause, honestly."
"No one is a lost cause, Soul. Not with the right teacher. And it would help me out because I can't afford the book right now."
"This thing new was eight hundred bucks. And I won't even be able to sell it back. What a scam." He leans back in the chair with so much force she swears he's about to fall off. "But I don't mind sharing."
"I'm working on finding a job, I swear. I'll help you and pay you for half when I have the money."
"Nah, it's fine. Just don't get impatient with me when I ask the same question over and over. And one more thing?"
"What?" she whispers as the professor makes his way to the front of their crowded class.
"Come get breakfast with me after. I'm starving." His grin is crooked, but sweet.
She slides him a Ziploc bag of snickerdoodles. "I'm sure these will tide you over until then."
She loses herself in the lecture once it starts, energized by the talks of how something as simple as tree-moss goes a long way in an environment. She always feels a bit small in the grand scheme of things, but knowing how essential fungus is makes her feel more at ease. She thinks she hears Soul snoring at one point but ignores it and deliberates over her stream of notes.
She turns to him once she starts to hear the telltale end-of-class signs – the zipped backpacks and binders snapping shut in unison – and gives him a hard punch in the shoulder to jolt him to life again.
This time, he falls from the chair. Luckily, the professor is long gone.
She kneels by his side with a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Thought I'd lost you to boredom."
"So to resuscitate me you try to kill me?" he groans as he rubs a forming bump on his head.
Maka holds out her hand to help him up. "Breakfast is on me."
He glares from beneath sideways bangs, but takes her hand and removes himself from the cold floor. "You're a scary bookworm."
"I am when I have to be." She laughs when she sees the dried-up drool on his face.
He rolls his eyes and leads the way to the café a few buildings over.
A few of the trees thriving by the library pelt them with decaying leaves. She looks up as they meander forward, and marvels at the way they're starting to turn into a gold like that of new coins. A few are a deep red that remind her of her new friend's unusual eyes. She's glad she decided to travel to as far as she did for school instead of another dull autumn in the deserts of Nevada.
"Soul," she starts, "where are you from?"
He hesitates for a moment, then, "New York City."
"Do you guys have leaves like this?"
He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. "Yeah. Central Park gets kind of pretty. But out here it's like a painting, huh? You can feel it changing out here."
"I'm from Death City, Nevada, so we don't have anything like this." She speeds her pace to catch up with him. His hunger is propelling him faster than normal. "Besides the little flowers that spring from the cacti."
"Sounds kind of boring, to be honest." He shifts his oversized book from one arm to the other. "I could never live in a place like that."
"You get used to it," she says as she continues to look up, "but this is a nice break."
They enter the cafeteria and are wreathed in the scent of new-baked muffins and surrounded by the sound of many ebbing conversations in the booths nearby.
When they reconvene to pick a seat, she's got one scone and a black coffee and he has two beef tacos, a bowl of lucky charms, and a bottle of Mountain Dew.
She blanches in an instant. "Is this a normal breakfast for you?"
"Yeah," he says over a mouthful of lettuce, "is there something wrong with it?"
"I mean when you said breakfast I imagined… a bagel or something? Not tacos?" She picks at her scone. "And you're so thin… I'm amazed."
He shrugs. "Tacos are good no matter what time of the day it is, you know. Especially with the crunchy shell."
"You are literally so weird."
"You're fascinated, though." He takes a spoonful of marshmallows from his bowl.
"Because I've never seen it before in my life."
"Welcome to New England, desert-dweller. Everything you knew before is on a whole new level here."
She pushes her breakfast aside. Her appetite dissipated with each swig of his slime-like drink. "You're not even from here. Stop making up excuses for your horrendous diet."
"Never."
They meet again later at a mandated floor party put on by their odd RA. She finds him by a giant bowl of some sort of sherbert, which is green and which she assumes is blended with some variation of Mountain Dew, as if he needs any more of it in his system.
She opts for a bottle of water, which stands in a row of eight and is replaced immediately. She steps away in a subtle manner from the RA, who looked like he was offended by her drink selection and leers at her from the corner of the room.
She sidles up to Soul and whispers, though she is certain he can hear and see everything happening around them. "Is our resident assistant… okay?"
"I think he has some sort of OCD. Every time someone grabs a drink or snack he fills the empty spot again within seconds. It's actually sort of nerve-wracking."
"That must be why everyone looks so uncomfortable."
"Probably." He peeks over her shoulder. "No roommate?"
Maka laughs. "She's already asleep, actually."
"Yikes. Someone nerdier than you? I can't even believe it."
She shoves him. "Where's your roommate?"
"That's Black Star, my wonderful bunk-buddy." He gestures behind him to a blue-haired boy igniting havoc by the snack table. He fingers a bag of cheez-its and leaves it at an uncouth angle, which causes the RA to reveal himself again from the shadows to repair the supposed snack aesthetic. Black Star proceeds to do it over and over until he gets kicked out. Some of the other students clap as he makes his way raucously out of the hall and back into his room. She hears the sound of a video game in the distance just minutes later.
"Seems like quite the character," she says around another sip of water.
"He is. We actually met in New York years ago so I'm used to it, but I apologize in advance for any offensive behavior in the future. He will find your weakness and exploit it until you want to strangle him."
She smiles. "Are you implying I'm good enough of a friend already to drop by your room from time to time?"
"That and I already have a question on our ecology homework."
"Only one question?"
"Okay. Actually, a lot of questions. You got time?"
"Yeah. Let's get out of here."
A few weeks into the semester the air gets keen and leaves trails of goosebumps on his skin as he steps outside. A quarter of the trees are now near-bare and it saddens him a bit to see the colors crunched underfoot instead of overhead. He shudders even in his thick coat and scarf. He turns around to check on his sluggish partner, who has a few more layers on than him.
"It's so cold," she mumbles as she trails behind him.
"Just wait till the winter."
"I'll be gone by then."
"No way. You have to finish this awful class with me."
"It's not awful. You're just an awful student."
"No such thing as a lost cause, Maka."
She groans and runs to get ahead of him. He meets her by the rippling waters of the local swamp. He cannot even see the water beneath the thick raiment of algae and lifeless leaves. It is wearing more layers than the both of them combined and he wonders how they are supposed to extract a hearty sample without falling in.
Before he can even inquire, she's angled over the water and scooping some semi-clear liquid into their mason jar. He grabs the collar of her peacoat to keep her from ending up in the scum, a dark swamp likely crawling with ancient snapping turtles and swelling leeches.
He cringes when she holds out the jar for them to both look. There are some almost-microscopic critters slicing through the dusted water.
"This is what your 'breakfast' looks like in your stomach," she says.
"How am I the weird one when you're always saying stuff like that?"
She shrugs. "Now we just have to get an ocean sample. I don't know how to get to a beach, though, beside taxi. I don't have a car."
"My roommate has an illegally-parked car we can borrow at the risk of our lives." He jingles the keys in his pocket.
"Higher education is so worth it. Lead the way." She holds the jar as if it's irreplaceable and not brimming with poisonous creatures and mud-stained swamp water. She really does commit to every project she starts. And lately, he's just along for the ride.
"It's going to be dark by the time we get there, though. That's what I hate about this time of year," he mumbles as they shuffle toward an apartment building's oversized parking lot.
They enter in the closest beach's address and he starts the hour-long drive in an old green Tercel that has seen more accidents than road time. The radio catches more static than song but they agree for a 90's rock station after a few minor disagreements. He can feel a coil trying to break free from the leather in his seat but ignores it.
She falls asleep right before they arrive. He almost doesn't want to wake her but realizes she'd probably like the view. Some frosted stars spring to life from the obsidian sky. She grabs his hand as they make their way over a few collapsing dunes.
Nothing prepares him for her reaction to the sight of the beach on that autumnal night. Her sea-glass eyes glow as she reaches the foaming water's edge. She holds out her arms, closes her eyes and breathes in the salted air with a smile as faint but as strong as the late-blooming stars. He almost wishes he could take a picture but restrains himself; and he's certain that the beauty of the image will carry its strength in his mind for years. It's stuck in his memory.
"This is heaven," she murmurs as he moves to stand beside her.
"Yeah," he asserts as he looks out into the cold distance, "it really is."
She takes the empty jar from him and moves to scoop the water into it. This sample is refreshing as she holds it out: clear and undisturbed aside from a few shards of shell.
Mid-terms are a lot more work than he thought they would be. Maka has been helping him all semester with ecology and he's keeping his head above water in that department, but two of his other classes signal impending doom for his grades very early in his college career. He can't risk returning home just yet; not now, in a place where he's finally making some positive headway.
He makes his way to the basement because the nights now are too cold for comfortable walks. He slouches on an old chair and watches television, though it's a lot like white noise as his anxiety levels start to amplify.
Panic attacks always make him feel like he's dying. Like his spirit is being choked by his body, like it needs to get out but can't. The ground could swallow him up now and he wouldn't even notice. His chest tightens and things go black and speckled at the edges of his vision. He curls up. Music used to free him from this but he's too far from his piano, too far from the few balms he had at home. He closes his eyes and waits for it to pass like a riptide through his bones.
"Soul?"
There's a tiny voice calling for him somewhere in the distance but he ignores it. It is probably just some figment of his temporary insanity even if it seems soothing.
But he bursts back into full consciousness when he feels himself pulled into someone's lap. Her skin is warmer than normal, he thinks, because his own world is so chilly. She always has a smell somewhere between cinnamon and vanilla and he closes his eyes as she runs a hand through his hair, over and over.
"I used to have anxiety attacks constantly after mama left, and papa was never home," she says, close to his ear. "It's one of the worst feelings in the world, I think."
He's embarrassed beyond belief but he says nothing, just listens to her ramble on and on about little things: how she finished a Shakespeare essay today and her professor was pissed it was only about Cordelia, how she wishes she could tape the red leaves back on the branches of trees, how she left the jars of water on her windowsill and how they're starting to change in a new environment.
"And it always hits you so suddenly. Going to war with yourself sucks. But keep fighting it. There's no other way out except to wake up and keep going. You find things to live for in the strangest places but it happens almost every single day. And then they just start to go away."
She found him, he thinks. And she's one of the reasons he wants to keep going.
He drifts asleep to the sound of her voice.
She shows up at his dorm room door on Halloween night, despite his best efforts to avoid human interaction. Black Star left to some party hours ago, dressed as Donatello. He is irritated from all the drunken shouting outside of his window, the abrupt drop in temperature, and the inability to be left alone.
He hates Halloween, even though she looks oddly stunning in a bee outfit. A sexy bee outfit. Knee high black boots and a black mini skirt hug all of her curves, and a striped crop top exposes her toned midriff. He hates his mood swings now more than ever. He resents, too, that she saw him at one of his worst moments and still treats him the same, as if she didn't see him being swallowed up by his own mind that night in the basement. They're getting too close. He tried to circumnavigate her since then but they always find strange ways to gravitate back to each other. He doesn't know how to wriggle himself from her grasp except to do what he does best: to turn away.
He's always fighting himself. He wants to stay and leave all at once. She gives off a light he doesn't feel like he deserves to bask in.
"Want to come to a party with me?" She grins and he near-cringes.
"Nah. Too much homework," he mumbles, hand fiddling with the loosened brass door knob.
"Mid-terms are over. Give yourself a break. I even have a beekeeper outfit." She reaches for his hand, gentle and slow, but he doesn't accept it.
"Not interested," he snaps. Soul feels it deep: his blood boils against his will – like it's turning black; like his whole body is gaining sharp edges. "Nice costume. Almost makes up for your lack of tits."
Maka Albarn is a girl who cannot keep her composure when it comes to emotions, and in this moment he loathes watching her heart break right there on her sleeve. Even her fake wings look like they begin to wilt. The glow in her green eyes is consumed by the tears that bloom, and her hands form into weak fists. And he's the one responsible. He's stolen her color.
He wishes she would react like she normally does to discourtesy: with shouting, with sharp-minded retorts and with a simple brush-off. But she doesn't and he knows why: because she considered him a friend, because this sort of comment was never supposed to come from him, but from barbaric frat boys and bullies. She's silent - completely silent - as they stand there and stare at each other over his threshold. She doesn't even muster a glare, doesn't respond.
She just turns on her heels and stomps down the hallway and out the door, disappears like a shadow into the crowds of costumed students on the street.
He doesn't bother closing the door.
He doesn't see her for two weeks following "the incident."
He sees her in class, but he feels like he's a ghost. She does everything but walk right through him: ignores greetings, texts, and faint apologies. He knows he deserves it, but he feels her vacancy like an open gash to his heart. He drags his feet more than usual. His roommate threatens to kick him out until he patches it up, and he knows with Black Star that nothing is ever an empty threat.
He decides to attempt being creative, and tries to work his way to Maka through her unnaturally demure roommate.
The temperature change is as abrupt as always: seventy to thirty degrees in a matter of days, sometimes hours. Leaves fall in heavier groups as if they can no longer stand the cold winds, much like desert-dwellers.
He takes a deep breath right before he knocks on her door.
She opens it clad in puppy-slippers, pigtails loose and untamed.
He refrains from any potential teasing. This is fragile ground that he treads on now.
She gives him a once-over, crosses her arms, and stays mute. He isn't sure how to move any further onto this thin ice. He can almost hear it cracking with the unspoken tension between them.
He clears his throat, lets his gaze drift to his feet. "I brought tea," he says, his voice weathered at the edges. "Lemon-ginger with honey."
"Organic?" she asks and he near-jumps out of his own skin. It is like he hasn't heard her voice in years and she sounds shaky, congested. Tsubaki may have mentioned once or twice that she was getting over a rough cold. Her small nose is red, her lips faintly chapped, and her breathing lightly labored. Her trash by her desk is filled to the brim with used tissues, and a humidifier hums in the background.
"What?" he asks.
"Where's the honey from?" Her glare is as lethal as a dagger to the gut.
"A beekeeper at the farmer's maket," he mumbles, the fear rising.
She takes the mug and breathes in the steam with a weak smile. "Thanks. How did you know my favorite kind of tea?" There is a small undercurrent of suspicion in her tone.
Soul points to Tsubaki's side of the room, empty now.
"You really did your research to get back into my good graces, huh?" She takes a long sip and leaves her critical, viridian stare heavy on him.
"Look, Maka, I'm really sorry," he replies, surprisingly loud and clear. No wavering, no doubt. "I was having a moment, but I'm not excusing it. I was a total asshole and you didn't deserve that from me."
She stays quiet for a moment, then opens the door wider. "Well, at risk of your health, come on in."
He cowers. "That's… it?"
She shrugs. "You meant it. That's really all I needed to hear. And honestly, I missed you. A little."
He releases a sigh of relief. "Me too."
Maka crawls into her bed and he slides next to her while she scrolls through her recommended Netflix list. "Don't say anything about the slippers."
"Wanted to – desperately – but I won't."
She grins.
"Why'd you decide to be a bee for Halloween?" he asks after a long, now comfortable, silence.
She tightens a pigtail, and her smile loses some of its color. "My mother taught me how to beekeep," she says. "I've always been enamored with bees. I'm determined to have a beekeeping club on campus next year when I'm allowed to form a group." She pauses and appears deep in thought, her eyes clouded. "It was the one thing my mom left me with and I refuse to let go."
"Will you teach me?"
"Oh, I already plan on it. I need a vice president. It's going to be your way to repent."
He grins and leans his head on hers. She has the faint scent of cough drops and honey but beneath it all is the lingering smell of cactus flowers, of drifting sand and moonlight. It is so easy to be in her presence for him.
He refuses to mess it up again.
The halls are eerie on Thanksgiving. He's not sure why he decided to stay when his parents offered him a free ticket home, but he thinks about his ebony piano ensconced by red-ribbon curtains and ignores the anxious fog forming in his wild mind.
He stops near Maka's door when he hears the faint sound of a Top 40 station. He dares a light knock and within a few seconds, she's opened the door. She's dressed in what seems like six layers, topped with two scarves.
He raises an eyebrow.
"My heater broke and no maintenance people will be here till Saturday," she murmurs from beneath the infinity fabric.
"You could have called me."
"I figured you would be home, honestly."
He leans on the door. "Why aren't you?"
"Couldn't afford it. Even if I could, my dad was going to drag me to his new girlfriend's house and I wasn't in the mood to deal with it. He has a new one every year and each one is a worse cook than the last. It's bizarre."
"Where is Tsubaki?"
"She went home with her… sort-of boyfriend."
"The church is hosting a Thanksgiving dinner if you'd like to join me."
She smiles. "Sure."
Soul only throws on one layer and meets her at the dorm entrance. She is still swaddled in two scarves and two coats and he stifles laughter.
She glares. "What?"
"You just… look like the Michelin man."
She shrugs. "Whatever. It's cold outside."
"It's almost sixty-five degrees."
"Yeah. Cold."
He rolls his eyes and follows her out the door. Mounds of leaves crinkle and crunch underfoot, all hints of green and golden color long faded. They sit like remnants of regaled artwork after a fire: brown, dusted and tattered. He kicks a few of them as they go along, but they tear instantly instead of floating free in the light breeze. He dreads the snow-coat they'll obtain in a few weeks' time.
He catches an inquisitive glance from her and is relieved to see she never loses the emerald vibrancy in her eyes, even in the building frost.
There aren't many other students here. Soul spots Kid at one end of the table with two lithe blondes at his side, his fingers steepled and his honey-hued gaze focused as always. Priest Law sits at the other end, an enormous feast between them that could feed the entire group five times over. His headphones remain in his ears, though Soul hears no music from them as they sit together just a chair away.
"Welcome all," he says as they all turn their attention on him. "Who would like to lead us in prayer today?"
Kid rises from his chair so quick that he near-knocks it over. "I will. Patty, Liz?" He turns to the girls and they stand behind him.
Maka and Soul exchange a quick look as Kid puts his hands together and begins a spiel about how thankful he is for the number eight, for the absolute symmetry of the size of the turkey legs, and the straight A's he has maintained so far.
"And I am thankful to Liz for gaining a cup size this year, therefore finally matching Patty-"
Priest Law clears his throat, and they all sit to cheers with glasses of sparkling apple cider.
After the finish eating, he watches as Maka engages in conversation easily with the two girls, who inform her that they were taken in by Kid and his father in middle school and have been inseparable ever since. He watches as Maka laughs over and over at some lousy joke Patty has said, her hand tightening around her third glass of cider.
His heart squeezes, and he wonders for the umpteenth time why it is that even the small things she does gets to him. Her laugh, the way she scrunches her nose in distaste at her new friend's story about a disastrous date.
Kid sits beside him, much to his shock. "Question for you, Soul."
"Shoot."
"Are you and Maka…" He tenses, as if he cannot find the right words in his enormous mind. "Dating?"
Soul clears his throat, his cheeks red. "No. We're just friends."
"Ah. I see. You just… seem close."
"We actually just met this year."
"Interesting." He always is in his science mode and it unsettles Soul.
"Did you… Are you interested in Maka…?" He pulls at the color of his peacoat.
"Oh! No. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't implicate that. I was just wondering. I actually do not pursue romantic relationships. The only time I ever get romantically involved with anyone is when I have to pay a visit to an ex or two of Liz's. She's actually over-romantic." There is an affection in his eyes that Soul rarely sees; he has a deep love for his adopted sisters and it shows in these tiny moments and he cannot help but smile. "They drive me nuts but at the end of the day, I would be nothing without them in my life."
Soul looks to Maka again, who is laughing once more while her pigtail is being pulled by Patty. He somehow already knows the feeling.
The rain comes down in sheets as she runs from her class back to her dorm, her new chemistry notes tucked deep into her fluorescent pink raincoat. She treats all of her notes like national treasures, and these are for upcoming finals and have gained a whole new level of fragility. She cannot even let one ounce of punctuation run down the pages.
She rips off her hood after she passes the threshold and takes in a deep breath. She thought her ribs might have cracked from the pressure of her cross-campus trek. Her rainboots squeak in the checkered halls, and she leaves a slug-trail of water and mud behind her. She's glad she bought a whole roll of paper towels yesterday.
Maka hovers by her door with her hand on her keycard. She stops short when she hears a consistent bedspring creak and something like a muffled scream.
"Shit," she mouths, her face reddened from more than just the blistering cold. She near-bolts to Soul's door, drenched pigtails flying. Six o' clock on a Tuesday, she thinks. This is insane.
He opens the door with one swift, curious glance at her outfit. "Why are you always dressed like a goon when you arrive at my door?"
"Because I am always finding myself in weird situations that I have no way out of," she retorts.
"Okay?"
"My roommate is… busy with her boyfriend." She clears her throat, afraid to say any of the words aloud.
"What?"
She thinks middle school metaphors might work best for him. She makes a circle with her index finger and thumb, and pushes her other index through the opening, back and forth until realization dawns on him and his eyes widen.
Soul opens the door wider, his face as red as hers. "Oh. Sorry. Come on in."
She shuffles not too far in the room, afraid to saturate his old-wooden floor.
He hesitates, then says, "I have some shirts and sweatpants you can borrow if you'll be more comfortable." He scratches the back of his neck, strangely uncomfortable.
"Um, yeah, that would be great." She places her notes on his desk, and takes the clothes from him.
"You can just throw your other stuff on the heater I guess."
He turns around and she changes within what seems like seconds to him. He listens for a moment as her raincoat drips a puddle onto the floor.
He is taller than her, but she didn't figure too tall. The pajamas are two times her size, but comfortable. The material is worn down by the years of use but still a strong fleece compared to her own sleepwear. The shirt smells like his faded cologne, and she smiles a bit. It reminds her of sandalwood and pine.
"What's with the strange face? Do they smell?" he asks.
"No! Sorry. I was distracted." She grins. "They're so warm. Huge on me, though."
"You can have them if you want. I know you're defenseless in the cold and I have a few more pairs like that."
"I don't know. They look ridiculous on me."
"Nah, they're cute."
The tension is momentary, but thick enough to be palpable in the tepid air between them. She cannot count the amount of times today that both of their faces have turn crimson enough to compete with the layers in his eyes. Their awkward encounters appear to be increasing over time, and she can't decipher the meanings. She turns away and runs a finger along one of the sentences on her unattended notes.
"Well," he says after a while, "I'm going to finish Luke Cage. I'll leave you to your nerding."
"Don't you have something to study for? Finals are in two weeks."
"I have plenty to study for. I'll do it when the time is right." He crawls into his bed, so matter-of-fact.
"I don't know how you're going to pass."
"I always find a way."
She rolls her eyes and sits, zoning out a little as the pages roll on. She nibbles on the end of her mechanical pencil, thoughts swirling like a weak torrent in her head. She's so tired of the equations. She swears she dreams about them.
"I kind of wonder what sex is like," she says, sudden and unwarranted. She puts her face in her hands after he spits out his drink, just narrowly missing his laptop.
She can't read his expression too well, or his violent reaction. He sits in silence for a few heartbeats before he replies, "I wouldn't know. Sorry."
Maka's gaze drifts out the window. She hates how dark it gets here this early in the day. She already is eager to see the beginnings of spring, of growing sunshine. "I dated a few people in high school but I was always more interested in my books than making out, I guess." She lays her head down on her notes and dares a glance in his bewildered direction.
"I'm sure it's not that spectacular." He chuckles, nervous.
"It probably is with the right person, you know?"
"Why is this even a discussion?"
"Oh. Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable! I was just… My mind was just all over the place and it kind of came out. Maybe I just feel too close to you or something." She smiles, bashful.
"It's okay. I'm not uncomfortable."
"You seem it."
"It's hard to explain."
"Try."
He runs both his hands through his hair and sighs. "I just can't."
She glares.
"Look," he says, "I just can't. Trust me."
"I wonder if anyone has thought about it… with me."
He spits out another sip of his drink.
"I'd be flattered," she continues, ignoring his second exaggerated response to her line of questioning.
"Well, I think there are some guys that think about it that wouldn't make you feel flattered. Lots of scumbags out here." He sinks further into his pillow.
"True. Guys suck." She throws her focus back to the slow-crawling rain on his window. "You're actually one of the only guys I don't hate. They're so gross."
He keeps his mouth shut firmly. No need to spill the truth and ruin the esteem she holds him in. He's thought about it more than once since he's met her. He thought about it the first time he saw the pale smattering of freckles on her nose, a sun-tinted constellation only visible from inches away. He thought about it when he drunkenly ran his fingers through her hair a few nights ago. He thought about it the last time he saw her bite her lip at lunch while she thought about something far beyond his reach. He thought about it just an hour ago when she put on his clothes. He doesn't have the right to even imagine her that way, but he can't stop it.
He considers walking outside and throwing himself into a puddle to drown.
She respects him without even knowing the hidden darkness.
"Soul?" she asks. Her voice is so soft, so understanding.
"It's complicated," he says, and that ends it.
He's awakened by a faint knock in the middle of the night. He groans and rolls over to read his clock: 4 A.M. There is a temporary nervousness that flits through him. He doesn't remember the last time he had a good wake-up call past midnight. He trudges to the door and finds Maka on the other side - rolling suitcase behind her - bundled up in more layers than necessary as usual.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. I have an early flight home for winter break and I just wanted to say goodbye since we're not going to see each other for a month. Technically, we're not going to meet until next year." Her eyes are reddened at the edges. She's a morning person only to a certain degree. Her hair is still soaked from her shower, and he catches the small hint of vanilla and cinnamon from her that he's grown to be familiar with. "I didn't mean to wake you like that. Sorry."
"It's okay. I would have been offended if you hadn't stopped by, honestly." He fiddles with the collar of his night-shirt.
A loud snore erupts in the background and they both laugh.
"He could sleep through a windstorm, huh?" she asks, her eyes glittering like the strings of lights around them.
"Oh, absolutely. Kid and I tried to wake up him up the other night with a whole bunch of methods and none of it worked. Even pots and pans and heavy metal. It's his superpower."
"I would say it's more of a kryptonite." She grins. "How did your finals go?"
"Good. Especially ecology, which I have you to thank for." There is a faint shade of rose on his cheeks, so he's relieved for the cover of the night.
"Did you decide to take ecology II?"
"No. Too much work." He reaches out and pinches her nose. "But I'm considering the wildlife preservation class you suggested next fall."
"Okay." She bats his hand away. "Well, I have to get going. Enjoy the holidays. Catch you next semester."
"Travel safe," he mumbles.
"You have my number if you need it," she says. She shocks him and pulls him in for a warm hug. It is over in the blink of an eye but he has collywobbles that might last through into next year. He's so weak, and it only grows worse the more time he spends with her. He's not even sure the break will cause it to wane.
"Thanks. Merry Christmas, Maka."
"Merry Christmas, Soul."
She throws him one last sugarcoated smile and then makes her way out the door.
She already drags him outside just a few days after winter break has ended. It is only late January, but the world is already white. Pure, immaculate alabaster all around them. The snowstorm the night before is like a cold, powdered sheath. The only contrast is the bright pink of her rainboots in the snow as they make their way across campus, and the everlasting emerald hue of her mischievous gaze as she turns every now and then to check up on him.
There is always an eerie but comforting silence after a blizzard. All he hears is her feet and his falling just a few steps behind. No cars are on the unplowed, iced roads. The streetlights are covered and don't cast much light on their path. Even the other students gathering to have snowball fights around them make barely a noise. It is like they are in a snowglobe; every movement is muffled by the thick coating. He breathes it in, and breathes out in frost and mist between his serrated teeth.
She grabs them two trays at the cafeteria and starts to run toward the hill of the other freshman dorm. He cannot keep up as well as she can, but they meet at the top.
"You ready?" she asks. Her smile is so wide, so full of mirth and wonder.
He figures this is her first snow. He's kind of selfishly glad to be a part of it with her, even as he feels the tips of his fingers go numb in his threadbare gloves. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."
They push off at the same time, but crash halfway down the hill.
They roll to the bottom of the hill, clinging to each other and laughing, the trays long gone to the realm of the mounds of snow in the tennis courts beyond.
They lay there for a moment, catching their breath. Maka plays with the end of their scarves, which intertwine between them, a mesh of plaid and ocean blue. She turns to meet his eyes, smiling. Her nose and cheek are a brutal shade of sanguine.
"Can we do this after every snowstorm? Please?" she asks.
"Yeah, only if we successfully make it down the hill next time. Klutz."
"What? That was your fault!"
"Absolutely not."
"Let's go down again. I'll show you how good I am at it."
And as always, he obliges.
Winter fades as quick as it arrived. She swears it was a dream she had – those four months of frost-nipped skin, of soaked-to-the-bone clothes and movie nights huddled as close to the heater as possible with her self-declared best friend Soul. She'll miss the excuse to crawl under his covers, but settles for the clean, warm air and the strings of dew-drop pearls that form on the unraveled leaves.
But, the springs here are stranger than she'd ever imagined. The skies were clear and bursting with sunlight as she left her lab, but after a ten minute walk are a thunderous shade of ashen-black. Maka runs and ducks into the nearest building and makes her way down the ancient stairs to the basement of the campus center, her paper clutched firm to her chest. She stops and listens for a moment as the sheets of April rain beat against the door.
She walks slow and cautious by the orchestra classroom – where she hears some poorly-harmonized Beethoven. She passes the cello class just as reverently, but halts at the sound of a lone piano in the next class over.
She drinks in the song, like the first breath of frostless air she took in just a week ago. It is obsidian in sound but so enchanting. She's trapped until the student stops. She dares a quick peek into the room and sees Soul furiously scribbling down a new line of notes.
She steps in just as precariously as she had moved through the hallway just minutes before. He jumps a little when she slides onto the bench next to him, a faint smile on her face.
"You really remind me of the Phantom of the Opera sometimes," she says.
"Why is that?" he asks as he tinkers with a few more notes.
"You hide your talents."
"You were listening?"
"I was." She shoves him, lightly. "I always am."
"My final for this class is to compose a song." There is a waver to his voice she cannot comprehend.
"And?"
"It's not the music that scares me. It's the performance part."
She waits, her eyes on his.
"Well," he starts, "part of why my parents and I are disagreeing is because of my inability to perform in front of crowds. I screwed up at my tryout for Juliard and it cost me my entrance. My parents just continue to bring it up every chance they get. They always let me know how great my brother is doing and how I could be that great if only I tried."
Maka lets the heavy words settle between them. She places a hand on his, her smile still in place. "Your parents aren't saying it in quite the right way, but you do have talent and I don't think you should give up either just because of one mistake. We'd be missing a lot of beautiful things in this world if all the great artists had given up over one bump in the road. I think the music you make needs to be heard, but do it when you're ready." She tightens her grip. "But I have to be selfish and say that I'm glad you didn't get into Juliard."
"Why?"
"We wouldn't have met, and I'm so glad we did."
He grins and tugs at one of her pigtails. "You're so cheesy."
"I know."
"But I feel the same."
"I know."