1998

.

They meet Blair the second weekend in September.

Walking is not exactly Soul's favorite activity, but he's weak to a good puppy dog pout, and Maka thinks she's pretty cute in her overalls, so anything is possible. They're just walking down the street, Soul hardly paying attention to where he's going as he taps away at his gameboy while she makes use of a stray hop-scotch. All of a sudden, the tiny black cat darts out from a bush, nearly tripping the both of them; Maka gasps and grabs onto Soul's flannel, wobbling dangerously on one foot while he puts the brakes on, throwing an arm out to block her chest from a potential collision.

The cat is very small. And very unafraid - she stands in their path with peaked ears, nose pointed towards them, wide yellow eyes trained on them fearlessly. What a cute little kitty she is, too, with a long, slender tail and soft, dark fur. She's small but not a kitten, Maka thinks, but she's certainly youthful nonetheless.

"Fuck!" Soul exclaims, clapping his free hand over his heart. "Scared the shit out of me."

Maka ducks beneath his outstretched arm and holds her hand out to the cat. "Aw!" she gushes, as the feline blinks at her, tail shifting behind her. "It's just a little bitty kitty cat," Maka cooes, and then she's dropping down to her knees, voice high and fluttering. She's doing that thing humans do when faced with tiny animals, speaking to them as if they are babies and incapable of understanding speech otherwise, and she definitely hears Soul stifle a little laugh as she makes kissy sounds at the animal.

It works, though, and the mysterious black cat approaches her, sniffing her fingers curiously.

"You really shouldn't pet strays," Soul says bluntly.

"She's so healthy, though," Maka says, still in her baby voice; kitty cat ducks under and presses her head into Maka's palm, and Maka pets merrily, gasping in glee. "Look how clean she is! I bet she's just lost, Soul."

He approaches, and Maka can feel him hovering over her, his jeans brushing against the baggy legs of her overalls. "Your mom's allergic to cats. You can't keep her. And like you said, she probably already has an owner-"

"But she's so cuuuuuute," Maka whines, lip wobbling as she peers up at him. He's standing in just the right spot to block the sun, and the light halos him, almost, making him look more angelic and heavenly than any boy in a Nirvana shirt has a right to. Soul schools his expression into a scowl and she whines, scooping the nameless mystery cat into her arms. "Look at this face!"

Soul has such a hard time maintaining his alleged bored indifference when faced with a tiny cat. He melts, scowl loosening, the corners of his lips twitching and threatening to give way to a giddy little grin, and he folds his arms over his chest - probably, she thinks, in a vain attempt to maintain his cool-guy persona. But Maka knows the truth. Maka sees the way he can't take his eyes off the meowing cuddlebug in her arms. She knows he wishes he was the one holding such a bundle of joy and fur. He's not fooling anyone.

Still, he tries, swallowing as he forces his eyes to Maka's. "Is she wearing a tag?"

A quick search solves everything, and the metal of her collar is cold beneath Maka's hands. The capital 'B' stands out more than anything, outlined in bedazzled lettering. "Blair," she reads, pausing to kiss her sweet little head. "It just says 'Blair'. Nothing else."

He chuffs and looks over her shoulder pointedly. "That's bunk. Imagine getting lost all the way out here," he grunts, and Maka can practically see the strain in his face. Silly Soul, trying so hard to be tough in the face of undeniable cuteness. "Yer mom's still allergic."

Maka stands, finally, still cradling the cat to her chest. Kitty rests her face on Maka's left tit and sighs contentedly. Soul makes a noise and moves to jab his hands into his pockets instead. "But she's such a good kitty."

Soul snorts. "You don't know that."

He's being a butt. To prove a point, Maka shoves the bundle of joy into his arms and he flails momentarily, horrified at the prospect of nearly dropping her. He's got a better grip on her before long, hands clutching the furry little morsel close to his chest, cradling her in his arms as he shoots Maka a panicked stare. There are exclamation points in his eyes and it's almost humorous watching the cat try to paw her way up out of his grasp and onto his broad shoulder while he so blatantly broadcasts his distress.

There's something adorable about watching a tall, grumpy man handle small animals. Small cats, especially, with their little pink noses and soft faces. This particular cat seems to quite like Soul's flannel, and rubs her face against the buttons of it.

"Maka-!"

Beaming, she blurts, "She likes you, Soul! Aw!"

"I can't-" he squirms, melting inevitably beneath the sheer tooth-rotting cuteness of such a small cat. "She's a wiggle worm and I don't want to drop her."

"She didn't wiggle for me," Maka says innocently.

Flowers would wilt beneath the look he shoots at her.

"Lucky you," he mutters, before finally bending over and allowing Blair the cat to leap her way down, landing gracefully beside him. "She kept trying to bite me," he insists, but still takes the time to scratch beneath her furry little chin and pet down the line of her back. "Stupid."

"She's not stupid!"

Soul stands and resumes his former position, hands sunken deep into the pits of his pockets. "Yeah, yeah, you're right," he mutters, turning toward her and beginning his slouching shuffle back toward her. Behind him, Blair watches, sitting there on the sidewalk so calmly, head tilted. Her tail shifts behind her. "Let's go, before Blockbuster closes. Say goodbye to your friend."

"But-!"

"I'm not letting you rope me into watching Clueless again, Albarn. As if."

.

Movie night is always a battle.

Mostly because, right, Soul likes to pretend that he's a real tough nut and too cool for things like romcoms and animated flicks. Sometimes, if she plays her cards right, she can twist his arm into agreeing to movie musicals, if just because "the score is particularly good" (whatever that means) and the dance numbers are well choreographed. Soul is nothing if not a snob when it comes to music, and at least if such a thing is essential to the plot of the movie, he can stomach almost anything - as long as the songs and compositions are to his standards, of course, which is always hit or miss.

But most of the time they can't seem agree on a movie. In cases like these, they decide the obvious answer is to rent two and turn the night into a double feature. Sometimes Maka picks out creature features or classics and sometimes Soul chooses movies she's never heard of.

Maka raises a brow and sets down Forrest Gump. "What is that?"

"Cover looks cool," Soul says, shrugging. It's certainly dark; Maka can't exactly make out the shape or silhouette of whatever is supposed to be decorating the cover, and that's never a good sign. The last time Soul took one of these movies home, he'd fallen asleep thirty minutes in, drooling in her hair and leaving Maka to watch Batman Returns on her own. Bitterly. "I trust cool looking things."

"Shouldn't," Maka retorts cheekily. "How do you feel about The Nightmare Before Christmas?"

He seems torn. Caught. There's nothing Soul loves more than dark imagery and a catchy theme. As always, he feigns disinterest, ironing out his expression as he shrugs. "Eh," he says noncommittally, but Maka can read between the lines like the bookworm she is. His interest is obvious, despite the way he broodily chocks his head to the side, and when he says, "Whatever, it's your pick," Maka knows she's made the right choice. Hook, line and sinker.

Movie nights are always more fun if they're both into one of the movies anyway.

And a happy Soul means a happy Maka, so she nods and hugs the dvd case to her chest, pleased with her decision. She doesn't mention the way the corner of his lips curls into a grin at her choice, or the way his step has a little more bounce when he turns to go put his selection back, just silently pats herself on the back and scurries after him, fluttering like a butterfly.

"Are you-" he stops, turning to watch her. "Maka, are you skipping?"

Pinking, she insists, "I'm excited," plopping beside him and bumping his hip in an act of companionship. He doesn't budge, but does crack long enough to raise a brow at her antics, looking taller once she's planted herself firmly beside him.

It's not like she ever forgets he's tall, but sometimes - like right now - she's reminded all at once just how dramatic their height difference has become. In their early years (read: middle school) Maka had been the taller one, if only just by an inch or so, but it had made all the difference to her. Now, though, they've both risen past the cusp of puberty and are well on their way to young adulthood. Soul stands a good head taller than her - and despite being a bit of a string bean, he's broader than she remembers, too.

Part of her wonders what those shoulders look like when they're not curtained with oversized flannel. And then Maka puts that part of herself in time out for bad behaviour.

"We're in public," Soul says, snorting, rocketing her back to the present time and out of her dreamspace.

"And?"

He seems to pause at this, deliberating, for a moment, between the rack of movies before them and her face. After a bit, he shrugs, rolling his eyes and bumping her right back. His hips are higher than hers, and Maka feels the gentle shove knock into her waist, and she wobbles for a moment, caught off balance. He grins more at that, reaching out to grab the back of her overalls, muttering, "Careful there, twinkle toes."

She huffs and shoves him back. "Hmph! Maybe I'll go trade in this movie for something else." Perhaps it sounds too much like a threat, because his brows actually knit together, and the power surges through her dangerously. "Like Pretty In Pink."

"You're a tyrant," he says bluntly, still with a grip on one of her straps. Despite his tone, he still takes the time to adjust it, smoothing it over the swell of her shoulder so that the front of her overalls hangs even. "Nightmare Before Christmas and double the snacks sound like a deal?"

"Only if you let me pay this time."

He's got the damn strap of her overalls in his grip like a leash. "Fat chance."

"Sooooul!"

"Let me act like the pretentious, spoiled asshole my parents raised me to be. C'mon, movies and food, my treat."

He has such a backwards way of looking at things. Cheeks puffed, she pouts at him, folding her arms across her chest. Most days, Soul doesn't like spending his parents' money - says it makes him seem dependent on them. They've spent so much time and energy trying to force their son's creative energy into a neat, compact box - but apparently it's okay now. She wonders if it's a chivalry thing, not wanting to make the girl pay. And if it is, he'd better know that it's bogus, thinking like that; she's not the type of girl who wants to be treated like a princess. Maka wants to be treated like an equal.

Pouting, she says, "You don't like spending your parent's money."

"Not on me."

Do not blush. Do not blush. But he's got a charming, crooked smile, and drat. "You're going to be watching the movie, too!"

Soul shrugs and releases his hold on her strap. "It's mostly for you. Don't mind spending my folks' dough on you. It's different."

"It's still spending it."

"Yeah, but not for shit they want me to. I can rely on myself," Soul mumbles, then nudges her shoulder before shuffling down the aisle and towards the registers.

Maka is unsure if his chivalry is an insult or a compliment. Is he implying she cannot do the same and rely on herself? Because - hoo, boy, is he wrong, and boy, is he playing with fire. There's not a doubt in her mind that Soul's delicate skin would burn with ease, should she choose to release hellfire upon him. Squinting at him suspiciously, she asks, "And I can't?"

Soul swings his keys around his finger and shrugs. "Nah, you can. Just thought you'd want to save your babysitting money for something important, and not just another movie night with me."

Just another movie night. Oh, Soul, you don't even know the half of it. Doesn't even know she'd cleared her schedule and definitely blew Tsubaki and Crona off in order to find the time to do nothing with him. Like he's not at the top of her list. Schnikies - he doesn't even know it, either. Oblivious Soul doesn't know he's got her heart wrapped up like one of Blake's wrestling moves, tangled and tied like a pretzel.

And Maka will not rock the boat. Instead, she bites her lip and says, "I have my own money, Soul," as if such a feeble response will actually deter him.

Somehow his snail's pace beats her to the register. Somehow, he doesn't say anything at all when her knuckles brush against his - and Maka plays off such a flub with ease, grabbing for the plastic bag in his hand instead of focusing on wondering what his fingers might feel like between hers. It's such a silly thing to obsess over, she tells herself. There are more pressing matters in the world than Soul Evans' (pretty) hands, and she is not the type of girl to lose her head over a guy. Especially her best friend. Her best friend who may or may not be sleeping with someone else.

Maka is definitely not that type of girl. Reeling in the Albarn in her blood has to be easier than this.

.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite sister-in-law."

Wes Evans is as flattering as he is embarrassing, and Soul shoves his way past his big brother before Maka's mouth has the chance to leak like a faucet. She still pinks, though, blushing brightly, and Maka tugs her pigtails down over her cheeks and shuffles in behind him, hoping Soul's much broader shoulders will shield her from Wes' good-natured prying and dazzling smile.

No such luck. He laughs fondly and shuts the door behind her. "I like your patches, Maka."

She is helpless to such bait. Despite the heat in her cheeks, Maka spins on her feet and releases her hair. "Oh!" she says, looking down at herself; sure enough, there are the patches she'd spent so long stitching in with the help of her uncle Stein only weeks ago. "Thanks, Wes."

His teeth are so white. Perhaps it should be more disturbing than it is, but instead she's just a little distracted. Maybe even a little impressed. "They're cute. I like the Pikachu one."

Soul rolls his eyes and groans dramatically. "Not all anime characters are Pikachu, Wes."

"Well, how am I supposed to know! You crazy kids and your animos and mangos."

Resistance is futile, and Maka finds herself laughing before she can help it. Wes only grins further and hikes up his jeans. Beside her, Soul practically radiates gloom, and takes her hand into his before she can say anything else.

It's like a bomb has gone off. Nobody speaks for a while. Wes's eyes drop down to their clasped hands with obvious intent and Maka squeezes Soul's palm, just to make sure reality is as warm and soft as she thinks it is. His skin is suspiciously soft in some places, delicate baby skin that does not belong anywhere on a man so intent on being seen as gloomy and dangerous. She likes it, though. It makes holding his hand that much more pleasant.

Even if his hands are softer than hers. Hopefully he can forgive her for her lackluster skin care.

Wes looks like he wants to say more. In fact, he might've even opened his big mouth and suggested something politely out of line, as he always does, if it weren't for his snarly-looking baby brother yanking on Maka's hand quite suddenly. And just like that, the calm is broken, the voyeuristic moment is over, and Maka's stumbling.

"Later," he grunts, though at who she's unsure, and then tugs her through the hallway. Maka struggles to kick off her Converse before she treads mud through the Evans' stark-white carpet and hurries up the stairs after him.

"Don't do anything I would do up there!" Wes calls from below, and Maka burns, burns, burns.

Soul isn't even a little bit flushed though. He shoves his way through his door, leads her through and then slams it behind him.

Maka can't help but jump. Shoulders caving, she asks, "Are you mad?"

He snorts and plucks the Blockbuster bag from her hands. Then his hand is on her head, affectionately ruffling her hair, and Maka knows even without looking into a mirror that her pigtails are lopsided now. "Not mad," he says, then turns his back to her while shoving CD cases off of his bed to make a place for her to sit. It's just his bed, she tells herself, and she's been there before multiple times without sexual connotations, but it appears she's hopeless lately and can't help but let her mind go a little wild.

Focus, Albarn. "So the slammed door was just for show?"

He shoots her a grin over his shoulder. "Wasn't gonna let you marry my brother in the entryway, sorry."

"I don't want to marry Wes!"

He busies himself with fixing his bed again. His pillow hits the headboard with a soft plop and then he's smoothing out his blankets as he says, "Mrs. Maka Evans in pink glitter pen suggests otherwise, Bridezilla."

Gawking, Maka wonders how any one boy could be so stupid.

First things first, though, she has to get to the bottom of this. Blood trilling, she shoves him down onto the mattress, plants her hands on her hips and shouts, "You read my diary?!" because it's the only way he could have plucked that one straight from her 13-year-old self's wish list.

For his part, Soul looks guilty. That dip in his brows reeks of regret, and he folds in on himself, shoulders caving as he leans up on his elbows. Avoiding her eyes is his next plan, apparently, and righteous Maka isn't having any of it. "It was just open, and you were in the bathroom, a-aaaand, hey!" he snaps, dropping to lay on his back when Maka leans over to get in his face. There's a curious heat glowing along the ridge of his nose, and this close, Maka can see the line of his freckles. "Sorry," he mutters. "It was shitty of me."

"Yes," she says, very pointedly, "It was shitty of you. That's an invasion of privacy! You'd be so angry at me if it were the other way around."

Soul stares at the ceiling instead. "I'd be pissed," he admits.

Something's bubbling in her chest, and Maka isn't quite confident enough to name it anger. "Who I want to marry is none of your business," she huffs, and Soul notes mutely, eyes still trained skyward. "I haven't- I haven't had a crush on Wes since I was twelve, Soul. And you said it yourself, he's way too old for me!"

He huffs, then blows his hair from his eyes. "You were blushing."

Not wrong. Not even a little bit wrong - she had been blushing - but Maka's been sporting rosy cheeks more often than not lately in his presence, and there's no way Soul's that dumb, right? Or maybe he's purposefully ignorant, looking the other way and searching for other solutions to the answer he respectfully does not want to acknowledge. And for a moment, her feelings are hurt, and the crack in her chest is blown wide open and aches.

And then he shrugs, expression even. "You can like him if you want, I guess."

"I don't like-like him," she insists.

"But if you did, and if you're lying to me because you're embarrassed or whatever, that's okay, too," Soul mumbles, before finally looking her in the eyes. He's so fidgety when he's sober, and so keyed up, but Maka can barely resist the urge to brush his bangs back and kiss his forehead, reassuring him that everything is okay and no, she does not want to bang his brother. Wes is not the Evans for whom she longs.

But Liz, she reminds herself. Liz, Soul's maybe-kinda-sorta-girlfriend. Or fuckbuddy. Whatever they are, Maka's sure there's not a place for her. And she respects that.

Even if it stings a little bit. She sort of hates herself for the overalls now, no matter how cute the patches. It makes her feel young. Shapeless. Childish, even, in comparison to long-legged, full-figured Liz.

Maybe she has been pining over the wrong Evans. Maka sighs and stands up, arms dropping at her sides. "Just drop it, Soul. It doesn't matter."

The bed creaks beneath Soul's weight, and his knees bump hers as he pushes himself to sit on the edge of his mattress. His Batman sheets seem almost comical now. He's had them since he was twelve, too, only the sheets are still around and Maka's grown past schoolgirl crushes on older boys and moved on to inappropriate crushes on her best friend.

It does matter. So much.

"Whatever," he says quietly. Maka's hands are made hyperaware of their emptiness, and the absence of his fingers between hers. "Sit down, I'll start the movie. Snacks are still in the bag."

The discarded bag on the floor. In all of the rush to escape Wes's perceptive stare and alleged heart-stealing nature (and their little tussle on Soul's bed), the Blockbuster bag hadn't made it out unharmed. Candy boxes spill out from the mouth of the bag, as does The Nightmare Before Christmas, looking out of place amidst Soul's collection of mixtapes, crumpled papers, and his crudely hidden bong, tucked shoddily behind his door.

To think, in a little less than a year, all of this will be hindsight. Weekend nights won't be spent on Soul's bed, bumping elbows with him while they make their way through Blockbuster's library of hits and misses.

The quiet singes her eyes. Maka will not cry over anything so silly. Adulthood can wait, she thinks, as she sprawls out on Soul's bed and hugs one of his pillows to her chest. "I think I'm going to be Sporty Spice for Halloween."

He perks at the conversation topic, then laughs shortly. "Nah."

"It's not your decision!"

"But you're Baby Spice," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Patty can be Sporty, can't she?"

"But I want to be Sporty!"

He leans over and tugs on one of her crooked pigtails. Stupid smug grin. "Sure, Maka."

"I- My hair means nothing!"

"I'm just saying," he says to the ceiling, crawling his way back onto the bed and dropping himself beside her, elbow bumping into the windowsill. Why he always picks the wall side is beyond her - he's so much bigger than she is, and so much more likely to get stuck in the crack of the bed, but still, he perseveres. "You wouldn't even need to bother with a wig. Pretty sure you already own tiny dresses and platform shoes too, so-"

Maka kicks at him. "I have abs!"

He's caught choking on air while fishing the remote out of his blankets. "You- I guess," Soul says vaguely, expression pinching curiously. "But how do you know Baby Spice doesn't have abs? Maybe she's secretly a fuckin' badass beneath all that cute. Could crush a man's skull with her thighs."

Staring at him, she asks, "Why is his head between her legs?"

He sputters and fumbles with the remote. "Please tell me your parents gave you the sex talk. I don't want to explain hitting it to you-"

"But-" Oh. Oh. Well, that changes the conversation's tone considerably. "I wouldn't-?"

His stare is dark for a moment, less legible. Bookworm can't seem to read between the lines. "Said Baby, not you."

Such a carefully veiled compliment. Maka presses her lips together and debates on drawing it out further, on uncovering just why Soul had thought to compliment her thighs, of all things, but the moment fizzles out like a candle's flame and then the VCR is running, and Soul's long arms reach for the lamp. She blinks in the smoky aftermath, an uncomfortable coil still burning low in her tummy as he settles beside her, brushing skin to skin. A bare arm is only a bare arm, but it feels so damn intimate, and Maka wonders when Soul had the time to shed his flannel and jacket.

Had Soul just implied that she could crush a skull between her legs? Had Soul implied that a man would want to be between her legs?

Baby, not you.

That familiar, scary rush of change surges through her again, and Maka tucks herself against him and focuses on Jack Skellington instead of anything else.

.

Her parents are fighting again.

Maka, of course, is used to it. It's been going on for months - nah, maybe even years now - and while annoying, and discouraging, eventually it just begins to fade into background noise. She wouldn't have even noticed the change of air in the house had it not been for Crona's tight expression and wobbly fingers. Poor thing never misses a stitch, but their multicolored friendship bracelet seems loopy, almost, falling apart somewhere in the middle, where the braided strings overlap.

Color Maka guilty. She slips the headphones from her ears and sighs. "Sorry about them. Do you want to go do something else?"

Crona nibbles their lip. Fidgeting, they shoot a weary look at Maka's door. Closed as it may be, the whisper-shouts of Mama still carry through like a bullet, and with each exasperated, passionate exclamation, Crona's shoulders cave further. "U-Um."

"We can go," Maka says sincerely. Headphones are dropped into her lap, and she pushes the walkman away from her. "We can get pizza, my treat?"

"You a-always treat."

With a shrug, she hops to her feet and moves to wiggle into her sandals. "I don't mind. Soul never lets me go halfsies, so I like to pay it forward," she says, bending over to secure the clasp around her ankles. Maka turns to watch Crona eye her from their spot on her bed, cross-legged and suspicious. "What?"

The fighting still rumbles from down the hall, but Crona presses their finger to their chin and hums thoughtfully. "H-He doesn't?"

Perhaps this is a conversation for another time. Like while her mother is not very aggressively accusing her father of sleeping with "that tramp from down the street," quote unquote. Papa's bumbling response begins and Maka's already checked out of the conversation, reaching over to grab Crona's hand in hers and give an encouraging tug. "C'mon!"

"W-What- not the window, no, please!"

Maka yanks it open and plops her feet out. "We're on the first story, c'mon!"

"But-! It's not an exit!"

"Would you rather go through the living room and say bye to my mama and papa?"

Her point gets across. Crona doesn't complain anymore, just grimaces as Mrs. Albarn screams, clearly vexed, and follows their friend out the window. It's a sunny day out, and Maka almost considers crawling back in through her window to grab sunscreen for the both of them, but decides against it as Papa's sob tears through space and time. Wisely, she slams the window shut. A little sunburn will be worth saving the both of them from that particular headache.

Maybe she's not as desensitized as she thought. Heart slamming in her chest, Maka forces herself to stay calm and begins trailing her way through the lawn. Don't think about it, don't think about it, just carry on - she's a big girl now, very nearly an adult, and the time for feeling scared is long past. Besides, with Crona in tow, she doesn't have time to play crybaby. It would be insensitive for her to be visibly worked up over her feuding parents, what, with Crona's past; they might be doing better now that Sid and Nygus have adopted them, but a looming past of terrible mothers is still just that - looming, like a dark cloud overhead.

Maka is strong. Maka is fearless. A little (year-long) fight won't scare her.

It's only once she's over the floral barrier between yards that she sees the cat. Blair's long, dark tail pokes up like a beacon and Maka nearly tramples over Mrs. Evans' precious petunias. Crona stumbles at her feet, very nearly flat-tiring her as their mini two-person parade comes to an end.

"Is that-?"

"Blair!" Maka delights, dropping down to her knees. Crona flails a bit, muttering about dirt and mulch and what if they have thorns, Maka, but the blonde has eyes for the tiny kitty mewing at the window.

Said kitty turns her head and blinks owlishly at her. "Mrow?"

"Y-You know this cat?" Crona asks, carefully, thoughtfully stepping over a section of roses.

"Kind of? Soul and I met her on the street the other day, and- oh!" Maka says, still leaning over, hand extended out for sniffing and such. "You followed us back, didn't you? What a smart girl you are. I wonder if he's home…"

Kneeling, Crona watches as Blair nuzzles Maka's palm and greedily soaks in a gratuitous number of head pats and chin scratches. When it's clear she comes in peace, they also reach out, and Blair doesn't seem to be picky when it comes to affection at all. Not even moments later, Blair's crawled her way up to Crona and plants herself right in their lap, purring noisily.

And how content they are with a cat in their arms. Smiling, they pet her gingerly, tenderly. It's heartwarming, watching them interact, and Maka clambers to her feet and knocks on Soul's window without preamble.

Somehow, she's not expecting to see Liz staring back at her. And yet, there's a part of her that's also not surprised - it's more disappointment, the sharp edge of realization, and Maka presses her hand to her chest, recoiling as if she'd been burned. In a way, she has. What business does a girl their age have being in a boy's room alone?

Hypocrite. It had been Maka herself only a night before, and yet - and yet it's not like that, she thinks, lips pressed together tightly. It's never been like that, not with Soul, never with Soul, no matter what the childish, teenage part of her thinks or wants. He's her best friend, not her boyfriend, and that means she has no real claim over him.

She thinks of Mama, sitting up late in the kitchen with tea and the darkness brewing under her eyes. She thinks of Papa, coming home smelling like perfume and alcohol, hair a tangled mess and suit askew. And then she looks at Liz, with her long hair and dark eyeliner and sharp, gunmetal eyes, and - and Maka just can't help it, she jumps to conclusions, because it's who she is, and everything she knows about men points in that direction.

She's unreasonably hurt, to say the least. And perhaps Liz notices it, because she says something over her shoulder and then cracks the window open. "Maka?"

An Albarn girl is nothing if not strong, and Maka will not disappoint. Fists clenched at her side, she says, "Blair's here."

Liz's brows raise. "Who?"

"Blair," she repeats. "Uh. Tell Soul his cat is here."

"He has a cat?"

There's swearing in the background. Liz stares over her shoulder again, and with the change of positioning, Maka can see into his bedroom, all dark walls and band posters, and the shadow of a boy shuffling over, white hair a sharp, devilish halo. Such a familiar slouch sharpens the ache from pinpricks to a single knife, lodged in her back.

Deep breaths. You're overreacting, Maka.

He's not her boy. He just smiles at her, soft and sweet, sometimes, and relies on her through thick and thin. Soul just holds her hand sometimes, and drives her around when her head is full of impending doom and the stress of college applications and the likes.

His eyes are so dark.

"Sup?" He asks, finally, poking his head out the window. "Crona?"

They give a shy wave, one hand still tucked protectively around the black cat. Maka watches those dark, dark eyes slip down, and then Soul's expression switches from sleepy confusion to recognition, and then flat out exhaustion. "You brought the cat?" he asks, shifting to look at Maka, instead of the cuddle pile seated beside his mother's hedges. "Did you seriously go out hunting for the damn cat, Maka?"

The fact that he so easily believes she's that stubborn is a little insulting. Maka's hands find their home, planted on her hips. "No! I found her out here-"

"What?"

"Maybe she followed you two home," Maka suggests, all the while struggling to keep too much suggestion out of her tone. The two of them, alone, together, heading towards Soul's place - well, his bedroom has never been much of a loveshack, but beggars can't be choosers, and where else do couples go to have promiscuous, headboard bumping sex?

That mental image certainly leaves a sour taste in her mouth. Maka purses her lips.

"Why would she follow us home?" Soul asks tonelessly.

"I don't know! She liked you, Soul."

"I don't want a cat."

"What, not a fan of pussy?" Liz chirps up, and he flushes almost instantaneously. Crona gives a startled, scandalized gasp and Maka grits her teeth. "She's cute, Soul. Keep her. Clearly she's chosen you."

"Chosen me," he repeats.

She snorts and elbows him. "Babes dig cats, dude. Trust me. Total chick magnet."

"What makes you think I need help picking up girls?"

This is one show Maka doesn't want a front row seat to. Liz's smile curls and she leans forward, just enough to whisper something in his ear, and Soul goes rigid, lower lip trapped beneath his teeth. He seems uncomfortable, shifting nervously as Liz grins only further, and Maka would rather empty the contents of her stomach in Mrs. Evans' petunias than stand here any longer and watch this shameless display of flirting unfold. There is a limit to her seemingly boundless tolerance, and it was crossed approximately thirty seconds ago, when Liz gave her an obvious once over and smirked right into Soul's stupid (messy, cute, dreamy) hair.

"Just don't let her sleep outside, okay? It'll be cold," Maka cuts in. There's a wicked sort of righteous glee that fills her as they break apart, looking as if they'd been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Assertive of her existence, she reminds them that, "Even if it's just for the night, it would be best to give her someplace to sleep. I would, but-"

"Mom's allergic," Soul says quietly, scratching his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Give her here."

Separating Blair from Crona is no easy feat. In the short time they've been together (a whole fifteen minutes, maybe) they've grown close. But it's for the best, and Maka reminds Crona of this as they shuffle over and hand the cat through the window.

Once she's in a new pair of arms, Blair sees no problem with being passed like a torch. She doesn't even squirm out of Soul's grasp. Instead, she tries to climb closer to him, demanding, like the greedy kitty she seems to be, when pets are in question, that her new master give her attention. It's a little funny to watch Soul struggle to adjust to such blatant affection, and seeing such a tall, grumpy guy cradle a tiny cat is just adorable. It sort of melts her ire a bit.

Just a bit. Then Liz cooes and Maka feels like a bad person all over again.

"D-Do you have cat food?" Crona pipes up, tugging on the sleeves of their sweater. "She's probably hungry…"

Soul sighs and tries to untangle Blair's paws from his shirt. "Wes can probably whip something up-"

"We could go to the store," Liz suggests bluntly. "There's some stuff I want to pick up anyways, so it's not like we'll be going out of our way- you two wanna come with? Soul's got a backseat, you know. Plenty of room for a couple of tag alongs."

They really shouldn't. Being with Soul and Liz - watching them interact so effortlessly, watching Liz dangle him in front of her like a favorite accessory - is distracting, to say the least, and there is only so much blatant flirting Maka can stomach before her ends start to fray. At the same time, though, it's not like they can go back home; Mama and Papa are definitely still fighting, and putting Crona back in that same awkward situation would make her just about the worst friend ever. But what choice does she have? Being around Mr. and Mrs. Alternative Rock makes her antsy. Watching Liz shoot smug little smiles Soul's way makes Maka feel decidedly less like Class Friendliest and more like Most Likely To End Up On A Reality Show, and that's certainly not in her plan for the future.

But does her heartache take precedence over Crona's emotional state? Is she really that selfish, to force her friend back into an uncomfortable and possibly catastrophic situation, just because she doesn't want to watch the boy she likes interact with another girl?

Jealous, jealous girl. Selfish girl at that.

Maka spares a glance at Crona. They peer curiously at her, the hems of their sleeves far past their thin fingertips.

There… is always the treehouse, too. All things considered, the two of them could hide away up there, in that sacred, magical bubble away from reality and impending adulthood. But part of her is hesitant; it's Soul's place just as much as it is Maka's, and they've never shared such a private getaway with another soul. Not Blake, not Tsubaki, not even Crona. And inviting someone else in to getaway from it all feels a bit like betrayal.

"What do you think?" Maka asks. "We could still get pizza."

"Pizza with us?" Liz pipes up. "I could go for pizza."

"You can always go for pizza," Soul huffs.

Crona bites their lip. Glances at the bundle of fur purring in Soul's arms. "... Cat toys?"

Powerless. She's powerless to deny such a simple request. Maybe she's not as selfish as she thinks - maybe she's not as much an Albarn as she thought. "Okay," Maka says, shifting, just enough to look Soul in the eye. "If it's okay with you guys?"

"Gee, asking me," he retorts, rolling his eyes playfully, but there's that same warm, bone-melting look in his eyes that always makes Maka a little jelly legged. "What a thought."

"Is it okay or not?"

Soul shrugs, then cracks his neck. "It's all good, I guess."

He guesses. So much effort goes into appearing carefree. It must be exhausting. Perhaps that's why there's everlasting darkness stained under his eyes, dark and purple, like a bruise. For someone with a hot girl in his bedroom, he sure doesn't look too enthused. It looks like he hasn't slept in days, which is ridiculous, because he'd definitely napped on Maka's shoulder only a night before.

He's such a puzzle, that boy, with so many tiny, intricate pieces making up one big smattering of color. Like paint splatters on a dark, bleak canvas, still bursting with life.

What other choice does she have than to tag along?