1998

.

Two days later, he improvises.

It started off innocently enough. They'd been in Soul's room, which probably could've been considered suggestive and perhaps even sexually charged, if Maka hadn't spent just as much time alone with him in it before they'd even started dating. His bed hadn't been made, clothes in crumpled piles on his floor, scribbled notes scattered along his nightstand - not exactly the picture of a shag pad, either - but regardless, in an hour, she finds herself with her legs spread and Soul between them, pressing a thoughtful kiss to her neck.

It all escalates so quickly. One moment, she's leaning her head on his shoulder, dressed in her favorite velvet dress and shirt combo, hair tied up in scrunchies, feeling cute and safe tucked up against him as she leisurely rereads her reading assignment, and the next Soul is rolling her over, eyes dark with something she can't read. Like a switch has been flicked, he's shoving her book off the side of the bed, demanding attention in ways he never has before.

"Ah!" she gasps, squirming beneath him. His hands are planted on either side of her face, and she's looking around his arms to try and catch a glance of her discarded homework. "What if you dented the spine-"

Like the needy cat he is, he grunts and lowers himself down to distract her mouth with his own. Ah. Well, complaining is hard when his tongue comes into play, that's for sure. To say she's spent too much time thinking (and obsessing, ugh) over his talented tongue is an understatement; he's so damn devious with it, whittling away her common sense just by greedily licking his way into her mouth and rendering her own tongue useless.

Stupid Soul. What's even gotten into him? Usually he's more composed than this - usually he's more shy than this, nervously staring at her mouth for an indeterminate amount of time before taking to nibbling at her neck until she gets the hint. It's not often that he takes the lead like this, that he cages her to his bed with his arms and swallows her cries and gasps as he reduces her bones to aroused, useless putty.

"Mmmm," he hums, forehead pressed to hers. Their noses bump and Maka sucks in a breath.

"What," she starts, blinking rapidly. "What was that about?"

"Bad?"

"N-No, just… unexpected?" Is that the right way to put it? Out of nowhere? Uncharacteristic of her lazy, sleepy boyfriend, who seems more into holding her hand and occasionally sliding his hands into her back pockets while they hug than kissing, most days. "Where did all of that come from?"

He stares at her thoughtfully. He leans back, sitting lightly on her knees, palms gliding to her shoulders, instead. A finger slips beneath the spaghetti-strap of her dress, and Maka regrets wearing a shirt beneath it, even if it's a cute little number. She wants to feel skin on skin, wants to share the heat coiling inside of her with his, wants to melt away in the furnace that is his eyes. Stupid, stupid Soul, she thinks again, and his way of making her feel dumb, too.

Then he licks his lips, and Maka can think of nothing else but that tongue and where it'd just been, how it'd just felt - a little even of where it could be, too, and here she is again, feeling overheated and fidgety beneath him. "You work too hard."

"You don't work hard enough," she replies cheekily.

He stares unblinkingly. Like stone. Runs the tip of his tongue along the seem of his lips again and renders her brainless. "... Wanna kiss you again," he mutters, and when she licks her lips, too, Maka watches the same hawk-like attention zero in. It's like staring into a mirror.

She wonders if he knows she hadn't bothered putting on a bra today. She wonders if he'll touch her, too, and if he'll discover such a fun little secret. Sure, she's not particularly bosomy, or shapely, but there's something about the way Soul stares at her that makes her feel like the most desirable girl in the world. Like it doesn't matter that her breasts are small, and her hips don't flare out like an hourglass, or her ass isn't thick and smackable - like he's more than happy with what she does have, tiny breasts and abs and strong thighs that could most certainly squash a man's skull, should she choose to do so.

Sometimes, she thinks he might want her to. Sometimes - now, perhaps - as he glides his hands over her, palms smoothing down the curve of her waist before smoothing over her thighs, working at the muscles that lay beneath her velvet skirt.

He backs off of her and she hides her face in her hands, moaning softly. Maka can't bear to watch the fabric slip down to her hips, can't watch the boring white cotton of her panties peek out - but, oh, she can feel everything, and the way he rubs his palms up each quivering thigh makes her want to squeeze her legs together and bury her face in his pillows.

Too much. And it's just the beginning. How can she ever dream to undress before him if she can't handle the sensuality of a few well-placed touches? She hears him mutter her name and she squeaks, trembling all over, feeling soaked and stupid for him, mostly.

His thumb grazes the hem of her undies, the crease of her thigh, and she squeaks.

"Shhh," he shushes, hefting one leg around his waist as he scoots closer. "Wes is down the hall."

Wes will never let them live it down if he catches them messing around like this. Maka hiccups, nodding into the darkness, palms still tight to her eyes. If she looks, then this is really happening - witnessing it will paint her in a new light, will strip her of carefully maintained chastity… but to not look is almost worse, because without one sense, the rest are heightened. Every shift of his blanket is almost deafening, and when he says her name, Maka snaps to attention.

"Maka," he whispers, again and again, like a mantra. Maybe like a prayer. "Hey, Maka."

"Nnnnh."

"Is- this is okay, right? You're not-"

"We can't-" she chokes on her inhibitions and presses her head back into his pillows. None of this has felt even a little bit dangerous, and though her heart feels like it's about to leap out of her chest, it's not particularly bad. Just exciting, mostly. A little naughty, a lot rebellious. A bit of late teenage rebellion can't hurt her now that she's apparently an adult, right?

Maka sucks in a breath and then releases it slowly. Her legs spread further on their own accord, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how completely drenched she is before him - because of him.

"... Not all the way," she says softly. Soul rubs his hands up her thighs again and Maka melts into his sheets. "I don't- I can't- but… this is good."

"A little more?" he asks, wonderment staining his tone. Her hands are still plastered over her eyes, but she can still sense the way his eyes rove over her in her heart, knows the absolutely predatory way he's probably undressing her with his eyes.

She's seen it before in him, once, while she was dressed as Baby Spice and he cupped her ass in his hands as she kissed him silly. He's not a robot, programmed only to tend to her needs. And she's not a robot either, mindless in her studies, built without urges and needs, too.

Sorry, Mama. But there are just some things that are out of her control. Her good little girl was bound to grow up sometime. And how can it be wrong, she wonders, when it all feels so right? When Soul makes her feel like a whole person, like she's got little wings budding in her chest, threatening to take flight? Maka's so tired of fighting it, so tired of pretending like she doesn't have these feelings.

"Yes," she says, very tenderly. "J-Just, um, we don't have a condom, s-so-"

Something brushes up against her and Maka is suddenly a live wire. Ah. She's always known his fingers were long, and strong, but- she's never felt anything but her own touch there, rubbing that tender spot beneath worn white cotton, and even if it's just a taste of what's to come, she knows it's going to be something new entirely.

"I could improvise," Soul says, rubbing her so damn slowly, touching and feeling everything through her damp, useless panties. Teasing her, he's teasing her, and- he's still not done, and finds her clit within mere moments. "... if you'll look at me."

Maka whines piteously, writhing in his sheets. "Soul."

There's something interesting giving his voice texture, and he asks, "Please?" like he never has before. How can she deny him anything? Maka peeks through the cracks of her fingers and she's never seen anything sweeter than Soul, looming over her. Soul, rubbing circles around her clothed clit, looking thoughtful and comfortable and more right than she can ever remember. There's not even a hint of that age-old kink in his brows. The only thing clouding up his eyes is a delightful, magnetic pull of lust, and Maka's hands find his sheets instead.

It's real. She's watching it happen, a witness.

No, not a witness - an active party. Maka's guilty now, too, of allowing a boy to touch her so, of enjoying such tender, adoring ministrations. To hell with it, she thinks. They're not going all the way yet, and if partaking in something lewd or unladylike makes her a bad person (or, worse, a disappointing daughter) well, that's just something her parents will have to deal with.

If they ever find out. No real reason to tell them she's been messing around with her long-term boyfriend, anywho.

There are more important matters at hand. Like Soul's dexterous, talented fingers. Like Soul's damn tongue, that keeps wetting his distracting lips. God, she'd give anything to finally find out what that tongue feels like between her legs, and she's half mortified for even thinking such a thing. Up until him, she'd been such an uninterested, bored girl when it came to anything even remotely sexual. And aside from him, there's really not much else that can get her going like this.

But that tongue. Maka clenches his sheets and dips her head back, wordlessly moaning to his ceiling.

"Wes," he hisses again, a damning reminder.

But she wants to be vocal! She wants Soul to know what he does to her, what he makes her feel - he has to know he's good for more than just smoking pot and hiding away in his bedroom, doesn't he? He can single-handedly create such grand music. He can play her like a fine-tuned piano so effortlessly.

Caught in between the urge to sing his praises to the heavens and pinch her lips shut, lest she rouse the sleeping deviant down the hall, Maka bucks her hips. It's crude of her, an unpracticed motion, but it prompts Soul to slip beneath the thin fabric of her undergarments and oh, she thinks. This is what all of the buzz is about. This is what Liz and Tsubaki whisper and giggle about in the girl's room - this overwhelming coil, the tether that tightens around her throat as he slips in, knuckle-deep. It'll render her stupid if it continues.

How can she ever feel like herself again, if he has this power over her? If any boy - anyone! - can make her feel like this? There's just- there's no way to put it into words. It's not as intrusive as she'd been lead to believe. It's weird, and different, but - Soul's finger crooks within her curiously and she can't help the noise that he draws from her, high pitched and broken.

He looks at her with such burning urgency. Maka bites her lip and wills herself to keep a lock on it. Her heart has leapt into her throat, and with each mere graze of his finger, each slip of knuckle, she's blown a little more open, chiseled bit by bit, until the tether has become a noose and she can't breathe without him.

"Christ," he mutters, eyes darting from her face to his hands. It's like he's unable to keep himself from staring. "Maka, you're-"

"Wes," she hisses out.

Soul wastes no time in rolling her panties down her legs. His gawking is almost tangible, invisible hands stroking down the length of her legs as he tosses her underwear carelessly behind him. There's not even time to be embarrassed about being so naked before him - even if she's still in the rest of her clothes - because he's spreading her wide, scooting down, and even as Maka gasps and sits up suddenly, there's no more wondering about his tongue.

She falls back into his pillows with a whumph. Remaining vertical is just too hard.

Difficult. She can't- hard is too suggestive, and Soul's- is he?

Her brain feels like mashed potatoes. Thinking is near impossible. Doing just about anything is a task and a half when Soul's got her thighs hooked around his face and his mouth rendering her speechless. That damn tongue is hot, and sly, and circles just shy of where she aches.

And now she understands what he'd meant about being crushed by thighs. She wants to squeeze him in place, wants to keep him here forever, seated so neatly between her knees, but at the same time she doesn't want to hurt him. It's such a challenge, keeping herself at bay, and the only way she can think to sate the urge to grab him and pull and pull until she's full and panting beneath him is to tangle her hands in his hair. Soul, for his part, seems to have no issue with her doing as she pleases, because the moment she gives a particularly rough tug of his hair he groans.

Anyone else, and this would be mortifying. Anyone else. He's so noisy, and unusually vocal with his affection, but his tongue slips down and draws shapes onto her quivering, drenched flesh and makes her feel like there's a bomb about to go off in her chest.

The whole time he's got his eyes on her, like he just can't look away. The sun's setting, and his blinds cast latitude shadows, but his eyes are still wine-dark in the golden light. Attentive. Unraveling. Without such devoted darkness lurking in the depths of his eyes, though, how else can she appreciate his glow? There's one moment, a long, flat lick up her sopping core that fizzles her nerves, and when he finally returns to pay his respects to her clit, Maka breaks.

There is nothing in the world but Soul to hold her down, and he does, with one palm pressed warmly to her bucking hips and the other cradled securely beneath her ass. His hair is the only real, tangible thing left, and so she yanks as she comes, a quivering, trembling mess of a woman, a howl caught in her throat. Wes, she thinks ruefully, Wes is just down the hall while her world is being ripped apart and hastily pasted back together, and his devilish younger brother's tongue is coaxing her through the starburst. She has to stay quiet, no matter what, no matter how mind-shatteringly good it is.

When he crawls his way back up her, Maka can't bear to do anything but kiss him. She's naked from the waist down, and he's hard in his jeans, pressing firm against her tummy, but the world might fall back apart if her arms aren't around him. He has to know how special this is, right? He has to know that he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, glowing nearly orange in the subdued light, hair wild - from her hands, hers! It's too much. He's too much.

"Ma-Maka," he rumbles, and she feels it deep in his chest, pressed tight to hers. There's not a force in the world that could keep her from touching him, from cradling his face in her hands, from smoothing her hands down the slope of his back and grasping his ass tight. "Mmh! That's- hey-"

His tongue tastes funny. The wings within her spread fuller, feathers tickling her very soul, and Maka rushes in a, "Your turn," before the moment's gone stale and the fear sets back in.

.

She doesn't get any of the music mumbo-jumbo, but at least there's a kitten in her lap.

While Liz and Soul go back and forth with lyric ideas and harmonies and other things Maka can't contribute to, Blair nuzzles her tiny kitten face into Maka's palm. Delighted, for the time being, Maka scoops her to her chest and presses a kiss to a twitching, furry black ear, and neither band member pays her much attention. She's sitting criss-cross-applesauce on Soul's old Batman sheets, watching.

"I'm just saying," Liz says, for the fifth time since she'd barged her way in and interrupted Soul and Maka's cuddle slash study session (read: Soul's naptime), "Patty can scream pretty damn well. It's an asset I think we should keep in mind. With graduation coming up, we just gotta keep our options open, if we want to do anything with ourselves-"

"Liz," Soul interrupts dryly. "Sure. Whatever. We'll do whatever you think is right."

Maka peeks up from the bundle of fur and love in her arms. He looks strangely small, standing opposite Liz, despite being a good head taller than her. Soul and small are two things that haven't been synonymous since middle school.

Her dark lips twitch. "Don't whatever me, Evans. I don't know about you, but I don't want to just coast by. I can't. I don't exactly have money that I can fall back on."

The tension churns thickly, and Maka's stomach nearly drops as she catches the dip in Soul's shoulders. Like feasible, real weight has just been dropped on him, weighing him down, and he's nothing more than a sad-eyed pack mule. "Mmm," he hums noncommittally, rubbing idly at the back of his neck. A nervous tick, a tell, and then, "Don't think I'm going to be sticking around here after- don't really think I'll be graduating, 'nd the folks won't be, uh, keen on supporting me if I can't pull my shit together, so-"

It's like a damn bomb has gone off. Even Blair seems to sense the shift of mood, and she nestles herself closer to Maka's heart as Liz's razor-sharp stare softens to stale playdough instead. In the aftermath, all that remains is Soul, staring pointedly at the ceiling, hypothetical rubble at his feet.

"What?"

He shrugs tensely. "Skipped a lot, so-"

"You have to graduate," Maka squeaks.

He peeks at her heartbreakingly. "It's cool," he says, but it's so obvious that he's lying, because there's a tightness to his voice that strangles her. "School's for chumps anyways. I have a band."

A band that he's not confident in. Suddenly, she feels sick, thinking of all the letters from assorted east-coast colleges littering her mailbox. Who is she to complain about an overstuffed course load, when her boyfriend isn't even passing his classes? Selfish, selfish girl, so caught up in her own studies and planning for her own future that she hadn't even noticed him crumbling beside her. What else has she missed along the way? Just how long has she had her head up her own ass?

Even Blair can't sugarcoat this one. She sets the kitten down in her lap and bites her lip to keep herself from word-vomiting. He doesn't prefer lectures, but it's sort of engraved into her bones to nag a little; it's for the greater good, can't he see that? She does it because she cares about him. She wants him to succeed, too.

The guy can't even face her directly. He's clouding over, ducking back into that ashamed, nervous fog that'd shrouded him for so many months before they'd started kissing each other good morning and nearly fucking each other good night.

"But…" she begins, in a tiny, crumpled voice that gains traction the longer she watches him fade. "... But you have to graduate, Soul. This affects everything, you know? Even if you don't want to go to college, a high school degree is still something worth having! You'll need it to get a job, a-and-"

"Don't need a diploma to play music," he says tonelessly.

"Do you even want to play music, or are you just settling for the easy path?"

Ah. There he goes. There's a spark of life in him just yet. Perhaps she's said too much, or perhaps she's taken a step too far - picking at his insecurities has always been a dangerous game, one she has never really prided herself in - but it's excellent at getting him to finally take a stand and feel something. They've always been good at fighting. For the longest time, before the honeymoon phase they'd both tripped into, post kiss-haze, bickering had been the only way they knew how to get their feelings out.

And boy, do they both have a lot of feelings. Soul, especially, despite the chill, stoned ease he tries to drown himself in. There are just some things he can't run away from, and this - his rapidly approaching future, post-high school (post Maka, even?) is one of them.

Because of course she wants to be with him forever. She wants to make it work. Knows, in the end, it will take a lot of effort, and high school romances rarely last into college and so forth, but it's Soul, and how can she ever willingly give him up? Despite his lack of drive, lately, and despite the way he can't look her in the eyes as he admits his failures, he's still something worth treasuring. He's still a boy who makes her feel like she's something, a special something, even if he has his own issues to work through. What kind of girlfriend - or friend, even - just leaves him to scramble?

His lips pull tight. "Should be asking you the same question. How's med school sounding, Maka?"

"Med school isn't easy!" she gasps, affronted. "And this isn't about me, this is about you! I thought you stopped skipping all the time. You told me you were attending more classes, Soul! That was part of the deal."

Maka hates the way the guilt drags him even lower. His body is made of stones and concrete, and soon he'll be dragged down too much to ever pull himself out. "Shit happens," he grits out, and Liz looks nervously at the door, as if maybe she feels as though she's intruding on something. "Sorry, I can't be as perfect as you are."

That's just not true. Maka Albarn is not perfect, and if anyone knew that, it would be Soul. Nobody spends more time with her. Nobody else is privy to such private, sensitive information on her life, and the echoes of slammed doors and whispered-screams motivate her to tug on her pigtails and catch the cry in her throat.

"You're so- ugh!" Do not nag. She's not his mother, and it's not her place to barge her way into his life and parent him - she's his girlfriend, though, and she will not baby him or use kid-gloves when dealing with him. If his own mother is too busy endorsing her older son's music and mingling at country clubs, well, someone has to help this stressed, maddened boy out. Maka braces herself for impact, looks directly at his fingers, pulling at the hem of his shirt, and says, "I can help you pass. Teachers like me, and I have connections…"

His stare darkens, and she's afraid he'll never look anywhere but his shoes again. "Pity, Maka. Nice."

"Not pity! You- I love you, you jerk!" she spits out. "And I'm not going to leave you up creek without a paddle if I can help it! You should have just as much a fighting chance as anyone else at a job after high school, and I don't- I don't think you want to be living on the streets and playing for spare change either, huh?!"

That sobers him pretty quickly. The fighting spirit drains from his body, thick like sludge, and the only thing that remains is a frowning, legarthic boy. Liz waffles at the door, unsure, and Maka swallows thickly and wills herself not to go on and spill the rest of her beans.

Doesn't he want a future with her, too? Doesn't he want to make this work? Because being with him - and the things they've done together - it means something to her. A big, big something.

"Whatever," he grunts. When he merely tilts his head in Liz's direction, she reaches for the door and swings it open. "We can talk later."

"Uh," she says, "yeah. Later. Nice, uh, talking to you two."

She's gone before Maka can say goodbye. From her lap, Blair mews, as if she can sense the discomfort in the room. Down the hall, Maka can hear Wes, probably politely flattering the fleeing Thompson girl.

What a mess. Is this what trouble in paradise feels like? Shoot, is this why Soul had such a mood change when she'd been studying with him a few days ago? It's entirely plausible that Maka isn't the only one fretting over the oncoming deadline of change, of graduation, only months away. Of college, and moving out, and saying goodbye to their parents, no matter how strained and weird the relationship between them may be. In becoming functioning, responsible adults, too.

In Soul, knowing how to talk to people without crawling into himself and hiding away.

He melts bonelessly into his bed beside her. Doesn't touch her, though. Soul seems to be making a conscious effort not to initiate physical contact, and buries his face so securely into his pillows that reading his expression is impossible. Nirvana's still playing in the background, quiet and staticy from his headphones around his neck, but he doesn't even seem to be paying attention to it.

His fingers are twitchy, though. He's fifty shades of jumpy, and jittery, and every other adjective for this jumbled mood he's worked himself into.

Maka stares at his shoulders. "Soul."

"Mmh."

"... Do you want me to go?"

He doesn't reply.

No yes means no, though, so Maka swings her feet off of the bed and places Blair neatly beside him. Maka may not be bold enough to shove her way into his personal space and demand answers, but Blair is surely nosy enough to wiggle her way in and demand snuggles. The cat has a get out of jail free card, though, and Soul lifts his wrist just enough for the black cat to slink her way in, greedily soaking up his body heat.

"I love you," she says softly.

Maka gets a glimpse of red peeking up at her. She thinks she hears, "You too," but it's muffled in his bedding.

.

It's awkward.

She tries not to be mad about it, but it's hard not to be. He'd lied to her, even just a little bit. Soul hadn't skipped that much class before they'd gotten together this year. It had been only September, after all. Not enough to ruin his chances of graduating, especially since their school year is divided up into semesters. She can't exactly monitor him when he's in base-level classes and she's cranking her way through a full, AP-level, college-prep schedule, compliments of her academically driven Mama and overzealous Papa.

Besides, she shouldn't have to monitor him. He should just go to class, right? He should be where he's been telling her he is, and not skipping class to smoke in the bathroom or… wherever he goes when he's not in school. It's not like he could've gone that far at all. They always ride home from school together, and he doesn't always smell like pot, so it's not like he's just running off to get high or something irritating like that.

Insecurity prickles at her. Where has he been going? Who has he been hanging out with, if not her? Even Liz had seemed surprised that he was unsure he'd be passing this year, so it couldn't be her.

Jealousy is a dark, dark mistress. He wouldn't… be seeing other people, would he? No, there's no way! Soul would never be the type of guy to see other people. Cool guys don't cheat, he'd said once, looking stupidly pretty with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke coiling around him, seeping through his dainty lips. And true to his word, she's never even seen him look at another girl when she's with him. When it's the two of them, there's no one else in the world worth his time. It's Maka or it's nothing.

But... but still, she can't help but wonder what if. Has he grown bored, and he's just not sure how to break it to her? Is her inability to be an adult and sleep with him finally wearing him down?

Maka clenches her books tighter to her chest. Not a chance, no way. She might be woefully insecure, and her examples of committed romance might be more than a little flawed, but she does trust Soul, and he wouldn't- he couldn't! How could that boy ever hope to cheat on her, even if he wanted to, if he can't talk to people? Lately, when they've gone out, he's hovered a little closer to her than usual, held her hand tightly in his as they'd approached the counter or their server set their silverware down. Social interaction has been hard on him lately. He couldn't be fucking somebody else. He can't even talk to somebody else.

The whole thing is so frustrating. And, okay, sure, maybe she overreacted a little, but he'd lied! Only a little bit, but he had! And graduating is important, especially to her; not passing isn't even an option. Heck, anything less than a ritzy, impressive college and a fat scholarship isn't an option for her, either. Soul has well-off parents and a last name that could get him anywhere, should he choose to embrace it. Maka has nothing but her determination and overstuffed brain.

So yes, it's awkward between them, to say the least. It's why she's walking home today instead of bumming a ride off of her tight-lipped boyfriend. The fresh air helps a little, at least, and even if it's a little cooler in January, it's still Death City, Nevada, and nothing her desert heart can't handle. At least she'd thought to wear better walking shoes today. Browned grass crumples beneath the heavy steps of her boots as she crosses Blake's yard and into her own.

She looks up from her feet. Her front door slams shut. Mama storms out, bag in hand. Papa tears the screen door open and grabs her arm.

Everything moves in slow motion. They're screaming, throats tight with strain, veins bulging, but Maka can't hear anything. It's like tunnel vision has set in and everything's a bit darker except for her Mama's hand, clenched tight around a pregnant duffel back. There are some papers in Papa's hands, and he keeps waving them around while raving like a madman, and - are those tears glittering in his eyes?

White noise crackles in her ears.

Slowly, though, the world melts back into place, oversaturated and violent in the sun. Papa's hair burns just a little too red as he rushes his way down the driveway after his wife. Mama yanks the car door open and doesn't even spare Maka a glance over her shoulder before literally ripping her wedding ring off of her finger and flinging it at him. And then, all at once, Maka knows this is not just another fight. This is it.

Time ticks away, finally, but her legs are heavy and can't move fast enough. Papa's sobbing face isn't enough to make Mama stay, so why should Maka's? She wants to scream, wants to shout, "Wait!" while the car door is still open and the second hasn't slipped away, but the slam shakes her to her core and her knees wobble like a toddler's.

She stands, frozen, books tight to her quivering heart as her mother's car pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the road, and the only thing left is the smell of the exhaust and Papa, alone, holding a diamond ring in one hand and a broken marriage in the other. With no room left to hold his heart, Maka wonders if he'd ever had one at all. Or, perhaps, if it just left with Mama, blazing through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell, past a stop sign and oozing into the bright, nearly liquid light of the horizon.

And, like mother like daughter, Maka doesn't even think. She just runs.