A/N: This was one of the first things I ever wrote for this story, so I've been working on it for a while. I tend to write in chunks and then string them all together, and as a result, I have actually written a lot for this story, but it's just not connected. I do have a lot more planned for this story, and a lot of improvements in mind. I will be back in three months! Enjoy this chapter!

Soul was confused. She'd always met him just outside the school entrance to walk home together, except on Tuesdays, because she had tap class. Today was Wednesday, he was pretty sure. Her last class was Performance, and he'd seen the other students in her class exit already. Most of them had begun to recognise him, and threw him dirty looks. He was a scruffy student not from their faction, and was always hanging around Maka Albarn – two things which they hated.

It had been nearly thirty minutes since she'd been supposed to meet him. Curious, he headed back inside the school.

The inside of the school was filled with sounds, the sounds of music, of dancing, and voices. He wasn't really surprised by this, and it was something, initially, he'd found the quietness quite frustrating. But now, he found it almost comforting. But when he came to Maka's studio, he was surprised. It was quiet.

She was in there by herself. She was dancing.

Soul had never seen her dance before. She was standing in the middle of the room, staring at herself in the mirror. She was alone; not even Liz and Patti had stayed behind to practice with her. Fixing her posture and taking deep breaths, she degage her foot derriere, lifted her arms into third, and plied, and begun to turn. She was whipping around unbelievably quickly, fouetteing with a hard, steely determination in her eyes as she spotted herself in the mirror.

However, the movement seemed stiff, and her leg too bent, and she was barely able to get around twice before she fell out of the turn. She stumbled, rubbing her bridge of her nose, like she always did when she was irritated. She seemed angry at herself as she shook out her arms and legs, as if she were willing herself not to cry. Her strict bun had come loose, pins flying out as she'd turned. Angrily, she tore at the flimsy net and sharp pins, tossing them onto the floor. Her ashy blonde hair fell over her shoulders, like a curtain.

She looked at herself in the mirror again, and began to dance.

Soul had never seen anything quite like it, the way she danced. Raw and unpolished, her leg slightly turned in here, her shoulder too high there, but it had a uniquity to it that could only be Maka. He didn't know whether she was improvising, or just dancing something she knew, but he was mesmerised. The line of her arms, the rolling of her shoulder bones, the agility and quickness of her feet; and how they never missed exactly where they supposed to go. Where she'd told them to go.

She wasn't watching herself anymore, but following the line of her arms. Balonce, glissard, pas de chat, ton le vay – she didn't have to watch herself anymore. He could see the expression bleed through her eyes, through her fingers. It seemed effortless, not heavy or unnatural.

Finally, she began to slow down, and prepared herself to turn. Quickly, she whipped around in a flawless pirouette, and then, she began to fouette again.

One, two, three. And a fourth.

Then she stumbled. But she smiled to herself – it was an improvement.

She looked up to the clock, her chest heaving, lungs gasping for air. Her hair clung to her face, which was sticky with sweat. Her face was bright red from exertion. Soul could see through the glass viewing panel her eyes that widened, and how she rushed to her bag, tossing her things inside it. She straightened up, looking up through the glass panel, and seeing his slightly awestruck face. Her expression changed to one of surprise. She approached the door, and twisted the handle open.

"Soul," she said breathily, her eyes widening. "How long have you been there?"

"Uh," he coughed, bringing him out of his reverie. He didn't meet her eyes, and instead focused on digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I just came to look for you…"

"Oh, yeah," she said, sitting on the ground next to him, and began untying the ribbons of her pointe shoes. She did it with such a practiced hand, deftly unwinding them from around her ankles. "Sorry about that. I didn't see the time."

"So, uh," Soul began. "Was that for something?"

"No," she said. She reached for the small flowery bag she kept her shoes in, and slid the hard satin shoes inside it, and pulled the drawstring tightly. Once she was satisfied with it, she threw them in her bag. "That was nothing. Just practicing some turns."

"Right." He said. Maka stood, pulling her red tartan skirt and school blazer over her black leotard and salmon-pink stockings.

"Okay," she said, zipping up her bag. "Are we going?"

The walk home seemed fairly normal. They chatted about school and what they'd have for dinner. But Soul couldn't help but think of what he'd just witnessed. Something was bugging him; and it took him all through dinner to figure it out.

It came to him when he was washing the dishes. It'd been his turn to clean and Maka's turn to cook.

Maka wasn't like another of the other dancers at Shibusen. She had drive, motivation; and still had time to improve in areas where she lacked. And he knew she would. He knew she would work as much as she could, even for the slightest of improvements. This was a quality he admired in her; and he knew it was something he didn't see in himself. Although, he had begun to feel something - he always wanted to impress her. He always wanted to be the best he could. He realised they brought out the best in each other.

He smiled to himself as he scrubbed the dishes. They had a long way to go, but it was something he was looking forward to.