1998

.

She knows his passenger seat like the back of her hand.

It's her home away from home, in a way. There's a good chance Maka has spent more time in his car than in her own bedroom the past few months; there's a distinct lack of bickering parents and scent of booze wafting from Soul's dashboard, and there's something freeing about the open window blowing her hair from her face and the low rumbling of the motor.

Late night drives are her favorite. They're soothing, with Soul's quiet conversation and the flicker of passing streetlights. He never demands too much attention, never asks for much, just mumbles here and there about the next song on his mix, which way she wants to go home, the moon's awfully bright tonight, huh.

Maka sinks deeper into the seat and kicks her feet up on the dashboard. Her boots clomp noisily together and she watches Soul purse his lips, eyes darting from the road just long enough to spot her messy laces. Well, she thinks, smothering a little smile, it's not her fault the shoes are several sizes too large for her. It's not her fault Soul has big feet and she just so happened to forget her shoes back home. He'd offered, after all, to lend her a pair.

"What time is it?" he asks quietly, ignoring the way the toes of her (his) boots click together rhythmically.

The seat squeaks and squeals beneath her wigging. "11:30."

"Early enough," Soul says, turning down a dirt road. The path is much less smooth than the tar, but the bumps keep her awake and eyes open, so she says nothing of it.

Perhaps it's his plan; Maka's bedtime is usually 9:30 sharp, just after Sailor Moon reruns have finished and her face has been washed. But it's Saturday, so Maka relents and lets Soul have his fun, lets him whisk her away for adventure, if only because she really doesn't want to go home yet anyway. Saturday nights are always a production in the Albarn house, between Papa coming home late and Mama waiting up for him, expression pinched, as she asks Maka to head up to bed, please. Realistically, it's easier to just split for the night altogether.

Maka digs into her back and pulls out a pad of paper. Streetlights flash by as she clicks her pen.

"S'that?" Soul asks, eyes still on the road. "Better not be homework."

"As if," she huffs. "MASH. Wanna play?"

"Uuugh. Do I have a choice?"

"I'm going to put Blake under marriage for you, okay?"

"What-no, come on, Maka," Soul says, so moodily, and Maka presses the notebook to her face to hide her devious grin. "Stop reading in the dark. It's bad for your eyesight, nerd-"

The clicking of her flashlight shuts him up pretty quickly. Maka slides her notebook back onto her lap and continues writing, giggling to herself as she adds Blake to Soul's list of potential suitors. From beside her, he grunts, fingers flexing and clenching around the steering wheel. He might mutter, "dweeb," under his breath before turning up the speakers, and Maka drowns in Pearl Jam as she scribbles her own name beneath Blake's, heart fluttering in her chest.

The passing street lamps cast such interesting shadows on him. He looks almost pretty in this light, mysterious, with his long lashes and nice cheekbones and dark eyes. Her eyes fall to his lips, as always, and she's quietly mystified for a long moment how any boy could be so distracting. Maka wishes she could write it off as one of those obstacles of having a stupidly handsome neighbor, but the heat in her face tells her otherwise.

So she has a crush on her best friend, whatever. It's harmless, she thinks, if she keeps it to herself. And she will. And she has to, because Soul has other interests anyways - a tall, lipstick-wearing blonde comes to mind - and it's never really been Maka's place to intrude on Soul's romantic (or sexual, god) life. He's so damn private about everything, romance included. She's just happy to have a part of his life at all, just to have even a little bit of him, that she can't find it in her to ask for more.

"Put someone good on there, if you're so set on doing it," Soul says, sighing.

Maka scribbles down Liz. "Done."

"Put Dana Scully on there too," he says, after a moment. "She's wifeable."

Interesting. But not surprising, really - he's a dime a dozen, and Blake may or may not have a shrine dedicated to the woman in his closet, so Maka shakes her head and pens her name. "Do you think I could rock a pantsuit?"

She watches him purse his lips. Soul clearly stifles a shit eating grin. "You'd look like your mother. Your dad might cry."

Point taken. The horror of her papa sobbing at her feet is more revolting than the honor of resembling her mama; in the end, it's just not worth it. "Never mind."

The motion of the vehicle stops, and Soul puts the car into park. If she were with anyone else, she might be a bit spooked - they've stopped in the middle of nowhere, shrouded by trees, at nearly midnight - but it's Soul, and he's probably the last person she expects to come at her with grabby hands and ill intentions. He turns the keys in the ignition and then suddenly it's dark, so Maka sets her flashlight on the dashboard and maneuvers it to properly illuminate the space without blinding him.

Soul lets out a low moan and stretches. Without the music going, it's easy to hear his bones creak and pop into place. She looks up from her notepad and says, "Want me to work the kinks out of your shoulders?"

He sighs and drops his head back against the seat. "Nah. I'll just fall asleep and then we'll have no way home."

"I have a license, you know."

"Not in my car you don't."

Stupid rich boy. Stupid nice car and comfy seats and expensive stereo. The only way Soul could be more protective over his car is if it were a motorcycle - but it's too "dangerous," according to his parents, so instead he's driving something just as flashy with twice as much metal to crash.

Pouting, Maka contemplates giving him a unicycle as a potential ride. He makes a grab for her notebook. "Lemme see the damage-"

"No way! As if," she huffs, hugging the pad to her chest and sticking her tongue out at him.

Soul reaches to grab her tongue and she scoots back, seatbelt nearly choking her in the process. It digs into her neck uncomfortably, and Maka slips her tongue back between her lips long enough to click herself unbuckled and nestle herself more comfortably against the chill of his window. From this angle, it's easy to block Soul from sneaking peeks at his fantasy future and grin at him at the same time, and he pouts at the reality of it.

"Maka," he says, very much whining.

She giggles and pens motorcycle under vehicles. "No, you'll ruin the surprise."

"Maka."

"Build a bridge and get over it, jerkbutt."

His expression pinches. "Burn," he tones boorishly, looking ominous in the glare of her flashlight. It's such a dramatic shadow, brightening curve of his nose and height of his cheeks just to cast darkness over his eyes. Then again, she thinks with a smile, his hair is already doing a pretty good job of shielding his eyes in that mysterious way he so strives for.

The two of them must look like such an odd pair. Him, with his flannel and ripped jeans, combat boots and shaggy hair - and her, with her pleated skirt and jelly sandals and Sailor Moon-inspired pigtails - they don't match, not even a little bit, but years of friendship built through a creaky fence is impenetrable, apparently, and Maka wouldn't trade it for the world. They just work, despite their differences - who else would put up with a game of MASH at midnight, in a dark car parked in the middle of nowhere? Who else would grin through it anyway and busy himself with retying her shoes while she scribbles aimlessly?

Soul would. Soul will. Soul does, even if he thinks her music is shit and teases her for naming her Tamagotchi 'Utena.'

Her name's circled in purple ink. Maka bites her lip and shuts the notebook. Maybe telling Soul he's destined to get MASH-married to her isn't the best choice of conversation, not while wifeable Dana Scully was clearly an option.

She sort of wants to keep it to herself anyway, like her own private fantasy future. Liking him is harmless if she keeps it to herself, like a string of pearls, swaddled in silk and tucked safely in her jewelry box. What is the harm in keeping something beautiful close to her heart? It can still be admired. It won't tarnish. There's less of a chance of something accidentally breaking, of gems dropping like marbles at her feet.

"What's the verdict?" he asks, quirking a brow. His fingers drum along her shins and send little shivers up her legs, like he's tapping a melody along the keys of his piano. "Should I invest in a new suit?"

She grabs for the flashlight and shines it ominously beneath her chin. There's no need for light; without a doubt, Maka knows he hasn't moved an inch. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

.

"He's doing it again."

"It's his locker, Soul. He's allowed to stand there. You know, some people actually keep their books in there. Like… like students."

He gives a great, dramatic sigh and drops his forehead against her pigtail. She sort of suspects the hard metal that cinches her elastic is digging in between his brows. "But he takes up so much space."

Maka rolls her eyes. She would love to check over her shoulder and see, perhaps, if Free, the resident quarterback and champion dog-walker really is blocking Soul's locker with his impressive shoulder-span, but there's a slouchy sharkboy pouting into her hair and range of motion is sort of limited at the moment. Instead, she works on squeezing another book into her locker without disrupting the natural order of things and sending everything tumbling down on her toes. It proves to be quite the difficult task, and Soul snorts in amusement as her tower wobbles.

"You could carry a backpack, you know. And not just build the second leaning tower of pisa in your locker."

"And screw up my back? Pass," she says huffily, pushing his face away. Soul straightens for a moment, looming over her as he plucks a pen from her stash and tucks it behind her ear. "Wh-"

"You'll need it," he says, shrugging. "You're always losing 'em. Should've gotten you a new pencil case for your birthday instead of that walkman."

"I like the walkman," she insists.

Soul flicks her between her eyes lightly. "I bet you're still listening to the same Spice Girls CD Tsu gave you, too-"

"I like it!" Maka gasps, then mock bites at the finger poking at her cheek. "Ugh, go away if you're just going to be a pest. I have places to be."

"Class is for squares."

"You're a square."

"Sick burn," he says dryly. "Seriously, though, I need to get to my locker. Shit's in there. And he's-"

Maka shuts her locker, hugging her books to her chest and flashes him a wry grin. Nervous Soul needs a buddy to help walk him across the hall to his own locker. It's as cute as it is exhausting, and he's lucky she's here to do the talking for him and muscle her way through the crowd. And maybe Free's bulging muscles. "You could just ask, you know. He's a really nice guy. He always picks up Eruka from my place after our study sessions-"

"Yeah, but you're friends with everyone. Your face says approachable," he drawls, gesturing vaguely at her. Maka perks a brow and pops her hip to the side. "And this face? Right here? My face says bored indifference."

Soul definitely has a poppy seed stuck in his teeth from his breakfast bagel. Not exactly the picture of bored indifference, but whatever, she'll let him have his fun. If he wants to maintain his aloof, devil-may-care reputation, fine, whatever, it doesn't affect her any - but it is sort of funny to watch. Because sure, Soul is a little callous, and sure, Soul's more than a little bit rough around the edges, but underneath all of that snarl and unkempt hair is a softie who naps on her lap when he's high and buys her ice cream and pads while she's bedridden. An abundance of flannel and kickass doc martins can only hide so much heart.

It's kind of disgusting how cute he is, even with a messy mouth and frayed corduroys. What's more disgusting is how effective his puppy dog pout is. Soul: 1, Maka: 0.

"Fiiiine," she sighs, turning on her heels. A swinging pigtail most definitely slaps Soul in the neck. "I'll get your locker back. But you owe me, got it?"

"Your wish is my command," he says, fingers sifting through said pigtail and goodness gracious, the way it feels feathering back along her bare neck inspires goosebumps.

Thinking of anything else is a wise course of action. Focusing on Free is ideal. She sets her sights on broad shoulders and rippling muscles and anything but dark eyes and crooked smiles. Such determined attention comes at a price, and Maka pays it upfront when she walks directly into another pair of toned biceps, shrouded nosily in a neon windbreaker. When all she sees is over-gelled, shrewdly dyed blue hair, Maka knows she's made a mistake. This is not the beefcake she seeks.

Her dear friend Soul doesn't even bother warning her. He does laugh, though. Jerkbutt.

Blake's muscles hurt. Rock hard abs probably aren't even the half of it. Maka yelps and pushes his shoulder away before he has the chance to tuck her into a headlock. "Ow-!"

"Oi, watch where you're going, pigtails," he says, voice thundering through the halls. From the corner of eye, she watches Soul sink back into the crowd, tucking himself in the safe little divet of students by her locker, eyes still on her. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing, I was just-"

"Don't care!" Blake exclaims at once. Before she even has a chance to fight back, he's shoved crudely-folded construction paper into her hands and grins widely. "You are hereby cordially invited to the Halloween shindig at my pop's crib. Be there or be fuckin' lame, Albarn. Costume required."

Gaping like a fish, she flounders about and opens the alleged invitation. "You wrote in highlighter on construction paper?"

"It's exciting, right?"

Blake's handwriting is laughably atrocious. Maka spends a disproportionate amount of time trying to decipher the word "beeyotch".

"It's… something," she settles for, because it's certainly not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. Something tells her admitting that the whole thing is a catastrophic, aesthetic mess won't sit well with Blake Barrett, he who runs a secret Pokemon card league and marathons WWE like it's his job. She's no delicate flower, but being the test subject of Blake's newest wrestling moves has never been a pleasant experience. Maka's pretty sure she still has enough bruises from the last time he'd demonstrated The Grizzly Bear Death Grip and doesn't need any more, thanks.

"Hah. Right? Anyways, tell Pouty McGrungerson he's invited, too. Wouldn't be a party without his mopey ass. Tell 'em his god's supplying the booze and pizza."

"His god being you, of course," Maka says, rolling her eyes.

He flexes and then smooches his own bulging bicep. "Booyeah!"

The worst part of the encounter is the group of sighing girls behind her. The mere concept of anybody - anybody - finding that overwhelming cocktail of personality and narcissism attractive is both revolting and mindboggling. Maybe it has something to do with his alleged rippling abs. Perhaps it's the way his ass looks in his wrestling uniform. Maka suspects they've never actually had a conversation with him.

Or gotten within a three foot radius of him, else they might've smelled him and realized that Blake doesn't really grasp the concept of Man Stank being inherently bad. Not to mention disgusting.

By the time she finally parts ways with Blake and makes her way over to Soul's locker, Free the Beefcake is nowhere in sight. Good. Whatever, it makes her job easier; while Free is certainly nice, it's a load off her back to cut that conversation out of her schedule.

She works on autopilot, easily working his combination and popping open the lock to his locker. There's a picture of a motorcycle pasted on the inside of the door, as well as a few loose sheets of music, scribbled down haphazardly in his chicken scratch. In fact, there's more music than actual books in his locker; between the CD cases and cassette tapes, there's not much room for anything else. Maka bites back a grin and spins to face him.

Except he's nowhere to be found. Brows knit, Maka stands on her toes, searching for his mop of white hair in the ocean of bustling students. Still nothing. Where could he have gone? Class is in five minutes, according to her wrist watch, and it'll take Soul at least three of those minutes to slouch his way down the hall, at his pace. It doesn't make sense. Had he sent her off to do his dirty work just to get rid of her? Was that encounter with Blake planned?

Maka Albarn is no man's lackey. Teeth grit, she slams his locker shut. The sound echoes through the hall, and Tsubaki jumps from where she stands, three lockers down.

Stupid Soul. Where could he have gone? She hadn't had her eyes off of him for that long, unless Blake really did eat up a bunch of his time running his mouth. Even then, Soul tends to move at a snail's pace; he couldn't have gotten far-

A trail of long, golden hair flutters down the hall, a shuffling, lurched back follows after, and suddenly Maka knows exactly where he's gone.

She might consider Soul her best friend, but sometimes she wonders if the feeling is mutual. Because yes, sure, Maka spends so much of her time worrying about him while he's home and potentially in the same room as his father, it's Liz that Soul leans on for de-stressing. And okay, fine, she knows why he does it - Liz isn't quite as prim and straight edge as herself, and these days Soul tends to lean on weed to sate his bubbling anxiety - but it doesn't hurt any less.

They'd grown up with each other, after all. Soul has been her neighbor for as long as she can remember. He's spent more summers in her bedroom - and in their old treehouse - than his own home. Maka spent many a pre-teen night on the phone with him, talking him out of doing something rash, like getting into a fight with his father, like blaming Wes for things that were out of his control-

It's a little discouraging, feeling left out. And silly, because she's never really had more claim over him than anyone else. She has history. Childhood. A conveniently close place for Soul to escape to. And Liz has booze and the loud, distracting music scene to pull him out of his head.

Dumb. Maka swallows back the bite of jealousy burning in her throat and hefts her own books closer to her chest. If Soul wants to skip class and go smoke with Liz, fine, whatever - she's in no place to stop him. She can give him hell for it later anyway. No sweat.

Tsubaki hums thoughtfully and bumps her shoulder. "Ready to go?"

Maka blinks back thoughts of sad red eyes and pretty hands and nods numbly. "Yeah," she mutters, voice cracking just enough to piss her off. Tsubaki's brow arches and then knits, concern written in every inch of those blue eyes. "Let's go. I don't want to get stuck sitting behind Ox's fat head again."

.

Predictably, Papa's car is nowhere to be found.

Maka doesn't even bother making a pitstop at her bedroom. What's the point, if she's only going to get upset on the way there? It's no mystery where her mother is - passive aggressively putting away the dishes, maybe stirring a pot of overcooked pasta while staring at the vacant spot in the driveway - and, though she loves her, Maka really doesn't think she has it in her to put up with her mama's bad mood for the third day in a row. Mama might be the best, but even Maka has her limits, and the treehouse is looking more and more like nirvana.

It's not like she needs the computer for her English homework, anyway. Her hardcover novel that keeps clapping along the small of her back and steadily bruising her like a banana will do her just fine.

What's less predictable is finding Soul already occupying their secret hideaway. He looks up at her, lazily lifting a few fingers in greeting before closing his eyes again, head leaned back against the wall, headphones nearly buried beneath his mess of hair. Whatever; it he's not in a talkative mood, then she won't push it. Truth be told, she's still not sure if she's going to scream or cry yet, and Papa's late arrival isn't even due for another few hours.

For a while, it's quiet. There's no noise but the hum and buzz of Soul's music, turned up to ungodly levels, surely hurrying along his hearing's expiration date. And while muffled Pearl Jam is a bit annoying, it's not distracting, and Maka gets her reading homework done in record time.

He looks up at her finally, eventually, eyes suspiciously red and drooping - moreso than usual, anyway. Soul licks his lips. Taps his foot along to the faint beat. Then rolls the wire of his headphones between his fingers and stares at her thoughtfully.

He's so high.

Sober Soul never has the nerve to look her in the eyes this long. Not without muttering some half-baked excuse and maybe tugging on her pigtail for good measure, anyway. The weed chills him out, though, and dulls all of his jitters and trepidation to a muted hum, and it's a (not so secret) indulgence of his that Maka politely ignores. Only because it helps him, she tells herself - only because it makes things easier for him to deal with, only because it soothes that anxious tightness in his face.

For him, she's willing to overlook a lot of things.

"Fast," he says sluggishly, watching her tuck her book back into her bag. For a moment, she thinks he might say something more, but then he nibbles his bottom lip instead.

Maka crawls her way over and unplugs his headphones. He blinks at her, toe-tapping paused. "Easy homework," she replies, and watches his eyes drop to watch her mouth. "Not that you would know, considering you skipped. Again."

He hums and slides his headphones around his neck. "I'm too cool for class."

"A big brain is sexy."

His dark eyes are sexy, and Maka hates herself for admiring his pretty lashes, his weighted stare. "Never said anything 'bout being sexy, Albarn."

Remove foot from mouth. Recover, stat. "I mean," she starts, nervously tugging at her choker, "an image can only benefit from being sexy, right? Especially if you're a guy and want to sell lots of albums and tickets-"

Soul snorts and melts into the beanbag chair. "'M not going to sell my body in order to sell my music. I want… y'know," he murmurs vaguely, waving a hand in the air between them. Maka raises her brows. "... Want the music to speak for itself. It's got a message. Want them to hear the message, not spend their time ogling my biceps."

Her papa could learn a thing or two from this bleary eyed stoner, who spends his time cuddled up on a tie dye-printed beanbag chair and draws on his arms with pen when he's feeling out of sorts.

"But if they like your music, they like your brain," she says thoughtfully. "And school is meant to help nurture the mind."

"Maka."

"I'm just saaaaying," she starts, tugging on his pant leg playfully. "It couldn't hurt to show up to class every now and again. I'm sure it'd get your dad off of your back. It would only help your grades, you know."

Soul groans and leans his head back. His jaw is so nice, she finds herself thinking, as she admires the pretty curve of his throat, the angle of his chin. How did Soul Evans manage to both win the genetic lottery and flunk out? He's such an odd mix, simultaneously both pretty and intimidating, high cheekbones and sharp, sharp teeth. Add in his white hair and red eyes, and Maka wonders how anyone so unique could possibly exist.

And yet he's here with her, flesh and bone, lips pursed as he whistles slowly.

She feels so vanilla sitting beside him. Tiny, tiny blonde, with too many freckles and no hips or tits to speak of. Compared to him, she fades into the background. Which is almost humorous, considering the fact that it's Soul who usually wants to remain out of focus.

The grass is always greener on the other side. Maka tugs on his pant leg again.

He tilts his head back down and watches her through those dark, droopy eyes of his. Stupid pretty stoner. "Nothin's gonna ever impress him. You know that."

"I think passing some of your classes would placate him, at least," Maka insists. "We could spend a summer at the beach, instead of you in summer school while I babysit Kilik's siblings."

He shrugs and melts off of the beanbag. Before long, he's shoved her books away and finds a home on her lap, cheek pressing flush against her thigh. "You're leaving early this summer for college anyway," he mumbles, breath warm on such sensitive, virgin skin. Maka doesn't dare tremble, but a blush is inevitable; from Soul's position, face mashed into her bare skin, he can't see a thing, and it feels a little like getting away with murder, like pulling the sheet over him. "Just wanna… make the most of the time we have now."

Something clenches in her chest. "We can still email. And talk on the phone. You could go to college near me."

He squirms and peeks up at her through his long hair. "I'm not getting into college, Maka. You know that."

"But you're so smart, Soul."

He's much too serene for such a serious topic. Sober Soul would be fidgeting by now and scribbling on his arm in black ink. "School's for chumps," he mutters, but presses his frown against her thigh and hides himself away in the fabric of her skirt. Maka isn't foolish enough to correct him - she is not a chump, thank you very much - but instead combs her fingers through his hair, working her way through knots and tangles.

The hair along his neck almost has a curl to it. Maka bites back a smile. His flat-ironing only lasts so long. Twirling a finger along the waves, she sighs, "You're so cool."

She feels his smile. "All that and a bag of chips?"

"Even if you're blazed half of the time."

He muffles a whine into her lap. "Like… a quarter of the time," he says, and Maka can practically hear the pout in his voice. "Don't knock it till you try it. It's like… everything's easier. And numb. 'Nd like… the music."

"The music?"

He nods and sighs, wetting his lips. Maka tries not to squirm beneath the tip of his tongue dabbing at her thighs. Goodness, that has thoughts buzzing she'd rather keep quiet. In order to combat it, she bites her own lip and thinks of anything but Soul's mouth, of Soul's stupidly dexterous tongue.

"Means something. Speaks to me."

"Pianoman," she teases, fingers tangled in his hair.

"Mmm," he hums, yawning. "Gonna miss you."

They have a whole eleven months until August. They have time. Her departure isn't until the summer, and it's the fall of their senior year - sitting and worrying on the imminent change won't solve anything, so Maka brushes her thumb just beneath his ear and feels him practically purr into her lap. There is still so much time before she has to leave. Beach trips can still happen, even if Soul doesn't manage to graduate with her. Blake's Halloween party. Late night drives, with his stereos on low and the wind in her face.

Sitting on the cusp of adulthood is just as scary as it is exciting, and Maka doesn't feel any more prepared for it than she does her parents' inevitable split.

Better to think about something else. Maka might not bury her worries in pot and a numbing high, but she has her own distractions - like the bleary-eyed boy nearly napping in her lap. "Blake invited us to his Halloween party."

Soul doesn't even move. "Isn't it like…"

"September? Yes. He said there'd be pizza."

"I could go for pizza," he says thoughtfully.

He can always go for pizza. It's okay, though. So can she. Even if he likes gross things like fish on his pizza. Maybe she's vanilla for just liking cheese. Maybe she's just a buzz kill. Either way, anchovies are definitely not all that, and Soul should know that his taste is gross and nobody wants to kiss him with fish breath.

Well, Maka doesn't want to kiss him with fish breath. Liz is undetermined.

Maka banishes the thought and continues combing her fingers through his hair. She's resolved to enjoy the time she has left with him, anyway, before college and the summer of change and adulthood starts. There are just seven months left of childhood and adolescence. Seven months of hiding away in their treehouse and ignoring the world as it moves around them.

Instead of dwelling on it, Maka says, "You should go as Count Chocula."

Soul peeks at her through his messy bangs. "Huh?"

"You know," she says, grinning, gesturing at her mouth. "Teeth?"

Soul's too mellowed out to give her shit for it. He just sighs and mashes his face back into her lap, and Maka doesn't even heckle him for drooling on her; instead, she just laughs and sinks lower into her own beanbag chair, basking in the comfort of it all. For now, this is enough. Life is pretty okay just being with him, even if time is ticking away.

She'll just have to make the most of the time she's given. Eleven months is a long time.