1998

.

Graduation comes and goes with the season.

Seasons have been flying by, Maka thinks, exhausted. It seems like just yesterday it had been the beginning of Fall, and she'd been tripping over herself trying to gather her heart back into her chest and not leap into Soul's unwitting hands. But now here she is, mid June, sitting in her bedroom in a loose summer dress, cords and sashes laid out on her bedding, cap plopped into her lap. To think, so much time and effort had been put into that moment, and for what - a smoldering, nearly-summer night in the desert sun, giving a speech in front of her graduating class and hundreds of parents and siblings alike - to her damp-eyed Papa and uncle Stein, her mother AWOL.

Such lead up to a whole lot of nothing. She should feel more accomplished than she does. Because she's graduated, for goodness sake! At the top of her class! Shouldn't that warrant a bit more bragging? Surely the phone calls from family members and AIM messages from friends should fill her with a bit more pride than it does.

She is a smart girl. She prides herself on such. Grades, academics, test scores - this is what she excels in, what she funnels most of her energy and time into. And for it to all be over, just like that, a quick burst of celebration in the waning Death City sun is almost exhausting. She feels older than just eighteen, a fresh high school graduate in the first summer of her adulthood, on the cusp of college and further education. It's only the end of an era, after all. There is still more school to come. Still more classes and homework to fret over, still more knowledge to lust after.

Med school, she reminds herself. You're going to be a doctor someday. Going to be Mama's bright little doctor, with a bright, bright future, a white picket fence and a trustworthy husband someday. Two kids, a dog - stability, really, is what she craves. Someday, she'll be stable. Someday, she'll have children that won't lurk in the dim hallways as their parents bicker and cheat and thrive on passive-aggression to get them through. Maka won't be seventeen and pregnant.

She can't be, now. Seventeen is in the past. At seventeen, she'd been a virgin.

The same cannot be said for eighteen. Freshly christened as a woman, Maka still blushes at the thought of it, at the thought of Soul, so warm above her, pressing kisses to her throat. Of Soul and his body, the hard lines of his hips, long legs and the other parts of him, too, that are less PG-13.

She presses her hands to her face and breathes out slowly. Blushing alone in her bedroom to stray thoughts of her boyfriend instead of tracing the shape of the signature on her framed diploma - who is she, and what has she done with Maka Albarn?

Silly, sentimental girl. She knows better than this, knows better than to hold on too tightly to anything. In a matter of months, she'll be gone, and Soul, regardless that he had, in fact, pulled enough of his shit together into passing and marching with their class, is not college bound.

She drops her cap onto her bed and parts the curtains behind her.

His silhouette is shadowed behind the deep shades of his own window, and faintly, Maka can make out the outline of him, his arms, tugging a shirt over his head and dropping it beside him. That gets her thinking - she's seen him topless before, heated, soft skin, a faint trail of hair leading to depths previously unknown - and before long she's daydreaming again, like a silly, lovelorn fourteen year old girl harboring her first crush. And maybe she is that girl now, unreasonably caught up in aimless thoughts of heavy sighs and dark eyes and snowy lashes tickling freckled cheeks, because when his hands shift lower, and Maka knows he's loosening his belt, she doesn't jump away and cease her peeping ways.

No. Instead, she grabs for the phone, presses it to her chest for a moment and collects her beating heart beneath the palm of her hands. With her pulse practically throbbing in her throat, it's hard to think of anything else but Soul's dazed, sleepy face in the early afternoon light.

The phone rings and rings, but he never picks up. Maka doesn't like the dial tone very much. Doesn't like the resulting beep after, signaling the beginning of her voice mail message. It reminds her too much of early Spring nights spent crying, all alone in her bed, waiting for her Mama to finally pick up the phone. Soul's shadow lingers in the window for a moment longer, as if he's contemplating, before his body crumbles down onto his bed and he exits the scene.

It shouldn't be possible to feel so far away from someone she knows so intimately. How is it possible, to love someone so fully, so incredibly, and still desire more? She does not own Soul's entire life, and to want all of it is unreasonable. She is just one girl with silly attachment issues, and he- he's a boy who managed to graduate high school despite all odds, a boy who flinches at raised voices and sirens and keeps spare change in his pocket to fiddle with. At any logical, unbiased angle, Soul Evans should be nothing special, perhaps, nothing more than a supremely pretty face and an old, reserved soul - but she is biased, fretfully so, and so this hazy boy with eyes the color of wine has a monopoly on her heart.

With every passing day, it feels as though he's pulling farther away. In a month or so, summer will be over, and they still haven't had the talk.

The big, scary talk - the one she knows stresses Soul out. The very one he's been avoiding with exasperating precision for the past two months. College. Future. Their future, together, as a couple, and whether or not he's willing to brave the waters of long distance with her. Or if he'd be willing to follow her across the country - because for him, she'd be willing to pick up a part time job, get an apartment with him, make it work, somehow. For Soul, there's not much she wouldn't be willing to do.

Her face burns just thinking about it. Living with him, together, away from all of the pressure of his parents and the legacy of hers. Just the two of them. Maybe they could even share a bed.

She is eighteen and no longer a virgin. They could do things. More things than they already have, with the blessing of privacy, at that! There would be no more worrying about alerting Wes (or worse, her Papa) to their festivities, or sneaking away to mess around in their old treehouse and risk splinters, or- or tangling up in the backseat of Soul's car, because god, is she over cramping necks and Soul rubbing his back after he's come, sore from leaning over her at such an uncomfortable angle.

Focusing on the positives helps her squash the little cracking feeling in her chest, the one that feels a lot like doom and gloom. Maybe Soul's just not in the mood to talk today. Maybe Soul's just not in the mood to talk always and it's not personal.

.

Maka keeps a schedule.

The days on the calendar are rapidly depleting, so she starts marking them off in rainbow gel pens. There is only so much time before she's headed to the east coast - to college, far away from her friends and family - and with each passing minute a moment gone, time can only be of the essence. She must make the most out of her time left in Death City. Maka cannot afford to dilly dally and simply let her loved ones slip through her fingertips - not again, not while she's still waiting on Mama's return call, not while Soul still sleeps through the day and smokes away his nights.

So she begins marking her weeks. Days. Hours, sometimes - some Tuesdays are Blake's days, where they watch pro-wrestling on his living room floor and she wiggles her way out of headlocks, and some are Crona's, though often they're split and she divides up the hours between the two of them.

A boyfriend can only eat up so much of her time. There is more to Maka than who she is currently dating. There are more friends in her life than Soul, and she fully intends on spending as much time with them as she has been with him the past few months. It's hard, separating her energy into so many different directions, but who would she be if she didn't try? Would it make her a quitter, to only make enough time for her boyfriend, who sleeps most of the day? Would it make her just one of those girls?

She doesn't know if she wants to be one of those girls. She doesn't even know who those girls are supposed to be.

Mama had always said there was more to life than boys, than dating, but Mama hasn't called back in weeks and Papa never stays home long enough for Maka to really analyze him, so maybe those girls are onto something. Maybe those girls know how to get people - read: boys - to stay. Which is infuriating to think about, because- because she loves him, nearly more than anything else, but Maka will not be reduced to the size of her tits or her ass.

Men are the worst. Just out of sheer frustration, Maka schedules Tsubaki more frequently than Blake.

Only- hanging out with Tsubaki isn't always just hanging out with Tsubaki.

She walks in to Liz, lounging lazily on Tsu's pink bedding, nail polish brush in one hand and magazine in another. From the other side of the bed, Tsubaki gasps, clapping her hands together and sitting taller, shifting away from leaning against Liz's long, bare legs. For a moment, Maka waffles in the doorway, unsure if she should be barging in on such a private moment. It seems platonic enough, but Maka still has her suspicions about what goes on between the two of them when they're alone, when they think no one else is looking - she might not be her boyfriend, but Maka likes to think she's pretty observant. She knows a lingering glance when she sees one. Been there, done that.

"Oh," she blurts.

Liz glances away from Seventeen. "Hey."

"Maka!" Tsubaki says cheerfully, patting an empty patch of bedding. "There's room over here."

If they're anything like her and Soul, Maka doesn't think she wants to sit on the bed. Ah, well, it's Tsubaki, and surely she's meticulous and clean? Or maybe Maka's making things up, and things aren't like that between them - still, she sits neatly on the edge of the bed, ironing out the wrinkles in her skirt over her lap.

Without missing a beat, Liz flicks her wrist, painting her toenails a stark red. Such a color reminds her of lipstick-stained mouths, and her Papa's shirt collars, and Maka shifts uncomfortably. The magazine is dropped at her side and she sits taller, allowing for more room - but Maka doesn't yet take up the room, still cautious of personal space and whether or not she's interrupted something.

"So," Liz says, gnawing on a wad of bubblegum. "What's the plan?"

"Was there a plan?"

Tsubaki shrugs, then pulls her long, elegant braid over her shoulder. "I was wondering what you wanted to do today?"

Anything that didn't involve waiting by the phone. Maka stares pointedly out the open window and says, "I don't care."

"Oh. Because… I have some leftover cookie dough, if you'd like to do that?"

"You mean, like, eating it?" Liz asks, brightening immediately.

Her girlfriend(?!) gently taps her knee. "After we bake it," Tsubaki says, and Liz melts back into her mattress, pouting for a moment before blowing a bubble and subsequently popping it. "I made half a batch with Crona the other night, but I think it'd be fun to have a baking day. We could watch movies while we wait, and-"

"You gonna wear the apron?"

What apron, Maka wonders, as she watches Tsubaki's pale face flood with a pretty pink. And on her side, Liz grins smugly, wiggling damp toes at her as Tsubaki splutters for a moment, politely batting her away. Whatever this alleged apron is, it must be some sort of inside joke or… something, because Tsubaki keeps blushing, even as Liz laughs and sits taller, glowing pink herself.

Huh.

So this is what it's like to third wheel. How lonely. She'd forgotten, somehow, that even girls can leave her in their dust, too.

.

It's like Soul is miles away.

He's there but not, head lost somewhere in the clouds. Distant, even when he holds her hand and walks her home, kisses her goodbye at the door, a soft press of his mouth to the corner of her lips. He's dazed in the way he brushes her bangs back from her face, dazed in the way his features seem to droop, dazed in the way he grunts affirmations to her questions. Like a puppet, he follows through the motions. And like a puppeteer, she seems to pull the strings, tugging him back up her front steps by their tethered hands.

Her boyfriend does not meet her eyes. Apparently, his shoes are more interesting than Maka, sliding her palms up his chest, cupping his shoulders. "Uh?"

"You could… come in, if you want. Papa's out for the night, so, um…"

Does he understand what she's trying to say? What she's trying to offer? It's so shameless of her, asking so blatantly for him to join her in bed. For him to undress her, and roll around in her sheets, keep her up past her bedtime and play her like a fine-tuned grand piano. She stares at him imploringly, going as far as to flutter her lashes, even, as if she possesses a seductive bone in her skinny body.

But he must find her attractive, right? He's slept with her more than once. He has planted himself between her thighs and licked her stupid. Sometimes, when he looks at her, she thinks she might as well just be made of useless, hormonal putty - but sometimes, lately, he shuffles uneasily, hand clammy in hers as he shrugs, seemingly indifferent.

He is there, but he is not.

Courage cannot carry her through a lack of interest, and all at once, she feels angry for having offered at all, if this is the reaction she's going to get. Hurt, too, for offering something so vulnerable to him, just for him to shake it off so lazily. Most of all, though, she's embarrassed, and the sharp edge of rejection cuts deep. Swallowing back the lump in her throat is nearly painful.

Maka shuffles too. Drops his hands and folds her arms over her chest defensively, as if it will guard her heart. "Or not," she mutters, dejected.

His hands are in his pockets now. Soul exhales and it's shaky, a breath he can't hold steady. There's nothing steady about him these days. Doesn't even have one foot in her door, and the tiny, feebly part of her that still clings to hope screams please, please, not him too. I can't lose him, too.

Stupid girl. Her nails dig into her palms and she half-wonders if it will draw blood. The pricks of pain center her, keep her from grabbing him by his shirt collar and shaking him, demanding he tell her where she went wrong, if she's been mistreating him, what she can do to keep his attentions on her. It's unreasonable to want all of him, even now, knowing that she'll be moving away in mere weeks, but- but he has a part of her, despite everything else, clutched in his nervous hands, buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. And without it, she's momentarily helpless, grasping desperately at his coat tails.

Stay, she wants to say. Stay with me forever. Want me forever.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Mmh," he huffs, glancing up to meet her eyes for only half a breath before re-acquainting himself with his shoes. "It's getting late. 'M tired."

"Oh."

He winces. "Tomorrow. We can hang out tomorrow."

There will only be so many tomorrows. A handful, surely, and suddenly her chest feels tight, full, ready to blow- there are only so many tomorrows left and she's yet to convince him to follow her.

She hasn't even found the time to ask.

"Okay," Maka says, shifting, hands stuffed into her armpits, hugging herself tightly. He's almost angelic, framed in the flickering porch light, moths drifting past him. His hair is pale enough to be a halo, and he's fallen from grace, surely, judging by the deep-set dread lurking in the depths of his eyes, in the lines of his face. "Tomorrow, then."

For someone who just got their way, he doesn't look very pleased. Putting off the inevitable is only prolonging the pain, and perhaps he knows that, because he takes a step back and drops down a stair, very suddenly eye-level with her, and oh, how had she not noticed the bags under his eyes were so bad? Unable to stop herself, she reaches out, brushing only the pads of her fingertips over the delicate skin under his eye, so stained with purple that it nearly appears bruised. Such soft, tender skin to be marred with exhaustion. So dramatic, even, compared to the shade of his eyes - blood.

He flinches beneath her touch. Started, Maka draws her hand back, as if she'd just stroked a flame. It certainly feels a lot like getting burnt.

(When has he ever flinched away from her?)

He's miles away, lost somewhere in the clouds. Or perhaps burrowing beneath their feet, digging and digging until the soil has piled high over him and there's nowhere left to hide. Would flowers sprout from him? Would they gather all the sunshine left in him and grow, green and lively, poking out from his pale ears?

It's like he's a zombie now. Like someone's burrowed into his chest and eaten his heart out.

Funny. She doesn't taste the tang of blood on her lips.

"I love you," she says softly, cautiously, nearly lost in the buzzing of the porch light, the humming of passing cars, as if it will be enough to keep him close.

He waves half-heartedly, as if his hand weighs a thousand pounds. But it can't, because those fingers are so bony and frail, now. They'd been in hers, only minutes prior, and holding them had been nothing.

.

Tomorrow, it rains.

Her rubber boots squeak and slosh as she marches her way through a puddle, en route for the Evans' front door. When it rains it pours, apparently - it's almost funny, because the desert rain is notoriously rare and a special occasion, but Maka's so accustomed to the bright, harsh sun that the downcast weather summons an overwhelming sense of doom clouding deep in her gut. It's something that even splashing around in the mud puddles like a child can't solve.

It should be a sign. It's probably a sign.

Maka ignores it and knocks on the front door. Then rings the doorbell, too, for good measure. Trembling knees are never reassuring. The slick, retching feeling clogging her throat makes her want to cry, and if Soul is not reborn today, bright-eyed and full of his signature snark, well, she doesn't know what she'll do.

(If graduation hadn't solved his blues - if sex hadn't solved his blues - well, what will?)

Lost in her thoughts, she barely notices the door swinging open. Only when Mr. Evans clears his throat does Maka jolt from her thoughts; he's as startling and imposingly tall as ever, hard features unnervingly stern as he peers down at her. His eyes are just as dark as his son's, but his are cold, unnerving, dark-navy, sharp like a blade.

Around him, it's always like she's smaller than she actually is. It probably has something to do with the way he looks down on people, both figuratively and literally. Probably has a lot to do with how Soul can't seem to meet her eyes some days, how Soul always seems to slouch down, as if to make himself smaller, a slighter target.

Maka swallows thickly and braces herself. It's the weekend, now, but still, she'd been hoping it would be Wes or one of the housekeepers to open the door. All things considered, it is Mr. Evans' day off, she supposes, but- there has still been a glimmer of hope, no matter how small, that had pleaded with reality. Let anyone else greet her at the door. Anyone else.

She feels sick with unease as it is; the last thing she needs is a pretentious, entitled man shooting her down.

"Hi," she starts, squaring her shoulders. He stares at her unblinkingly. "Is Soul home?"

He watches her, observing. Such watchful, judgemental eyes. No wonder Soul is the way he is, or why Soul folds under pressure - he's been dealing with this his whole life.

"In his room," he says stiffly. Such a sudden, deep voice is startling. "What is it you want?"

She's his girlfriend, for goodness sake; is visiting him such a crime? Maka presses her lips together and minds her manners, barely - the urge to snap back is overwhelming, and she clenches her hands at her side, listening to the rhythm of the rain in a weak attempt to bank the inferno of her temper. "Could I see him? It's important."

Finally, he blinks. The milliseconds in which his eyes are not centered on her cannot last long enough, and the cold blue of his stare flickers back without fail. Unlike Soul, though, Maka does not feel the instinctual need to cower and draw back, hide her teeth and tongue behind her lips and stew - no, instead, Maka would rather like to grab him and shake him, ask why he thinks he's so much better than her. What, because he was born into money? Because he can play the cello and move audiences to tears?

Maka grits her teeth. News flash, someday she'll be saving lives. Someday, she'll be a doctor - and she can't see how that's any less important than mere entertainment. And being spoken down to is not on the menu for her future. Hell no.

She is not a little girl anymore. She is no longer seventeen, wide-eyed and filled with wonder. The cracks have started to set in, started to chip and give way to this new, adult Maka. The one who questions everything, who fights, who will not let herself be walked all over. Not anymore. This Maka will not sit down quietly, bury her nose in a book and hope knowledge will lead her to a place where she isn't so afraid anymore.

In a few weeks, she will be in New England, working on a medical degree, and - if everything works out - Soul will be at her side, working on his music or whatever it is that will make him happy, away from his father's stare and his brother's shadow. They'll make it, together.

She just has to sit still and look pretty. And certainly not bop Soul's dad in the nose.

Finally, though, he relents, and backs up enough for Maka to squeeze through the doorway. "He's upstairs," Mr. Evans mutters, tone pinched. "Wasting away up there instead of practicing like he's supposed to. Figures, he'd invite you over instead of actually putting forth any sort of effort for once. That boy…"

Her temper burns white-hot, and no way, no mother-fudging way. Her bones are steel as her head snaps over to glare at him, heart rumbling in her chest like a motor, and she hisses, "He's trying."

He's trying, Wes had said to her once, the very same. He's trying, go easy on him. She wonders how often the eldest brother has said the same to his father, wonders how often anyone else in this house has stood up for Soul. Well, she has no problem speaking up on Soul's behalf. The way she sees it, her foot is already halfway out of the state. He can't belittle her from across the country, can't make her seem small when she's working hard on getting a college degree.

He glances curiously at her. "Not very hard, if he's going to spend his days sleeping," he says, very calmly - it's jarring. Nothing about this man is soothing, or even remotely calm; she's lived next door to this man for years, has heard his own temper snap, has seen the aftermath written in Soul's face as he crawled in her window, asking to Zelda.

But appearances are everything, she supposes, in this family. Must be why half of the town still doesn't know about Soul's lack of plans for college. Must be why he bothers putting a hand on Soul's shoulder at all when they're out in public.

"You know that, don't you?" he asks, adjusting his glasses. He takes them off the perch of his nose, summons a handkerchief, wipes at the lenses meticulously. "You're a bright girl. Wes tells me you've gotten yourself a full ride scholarship. That's working hard."

It should be flattering. But it's meant to demerit Soul, meant to chip away at the bricks that make up his walls, his carefully built defenses. Instead of flattering her, it pisses her right off. Temper, temper.

"It's harder for him," she says, fists clenched at her side, still. "Can't you tell? He doesn't work the same way I do. Numbers and things, and sitting and studying- it's not for him. But it doesn't mean he's not trying. He's just…"

"Lazy," his father finishes, slipping his glasses upon his nose

Tired, Maka thinks instead, sadly. Scared. And I can't blame him.

.

If possible, Soul looks more sickly than he had yesterday.

His face has gotten so thin. His skin has gotten so pale. His cheekbones look more pronounced, jutting out almost in harsh angles, the shadows in his face gaunt and almost gray. His exhaustion is written plainly, in the dark purple staining beneath his eyes, in the way his lids droop, the way his lashes flutter heavily. Still, though, despite it all, he sits on the edge of his bed as she enters the room, bong poised against the opposite wall. His hands shake on his knees, fingers drumming incessantly.

He's unreadable in the way he watches her. The door shuts behind her with a click. Maka swallows her heart and watches him push his hair out of his eyes. Even if she wanted to, how could she sleep with him now? How could she ask that of him, when he's clearly coming apart at the seams?

Just a little longer, she thinks. Just last a little longer and we'll get you out of here yet.

Home stretch.

"It's tomorrow," she jokes, stepping forward, shrugging her way out of her yellow raincoat. "I brought snacks-"

"I think we should break up."

The world comes to a screeching halt. Even Soul looks surprised at blurting it out so suddenly, blinking rapidly before cupping his hands over his knees, grasping at the rough fabric of his jeans. He looks anywhere but at her, biting his lip, foot tapping, and Maka tries to swallow the creeping fear.

"What," she mumbles softly. "Um-"

"We… should break up," he says, stony, shoulders lurching, trembling. She wants to race forward, to cup his face in her hands and hold him to her chest, anything to give him a steady rhythm to latch onto. "Long distance is hard, right? "Nd you're… you're going across the country, Maka, and I'm-"

"You can come with me!" she practically bursts, a frantic fanfare. Maka all but stumbles forward, wedging his legs apart, planting herself between his knees. She will carve a place for herself if she has to, anything to be a part of him, of his life. "We can get an apartment, or you can, and in a year I'll move in with you and get a job while I go to school-"

It's like she can't catch her breath. Like the words can't spill fast enough, and if she's not careful, not quick enough, Soul will be lost forever in the bleak space between them. His legs tremble around her, knees bobbing, and his hands don't seek out her thighs or the curve of her waist, her hips. He stares at her, eyes bigger than she can ever remember, so clouded up with fear that it chokes her up, too. How can she breathe when he's looking at her like this? How can she spit out the words without shaking him further?

She plants her hands on his face instead. If he won't touch her, she'll be the one; his face is damp in her palms, cheeks almost clammy, and his eyes burn just a twidge more red than normal. Misty lashes.

It must be raining inside, too. Thunder and lightning roar and shatter her careful hope right there, shaking his bones, but the sound of him sucking in a harsh breath is louder than anything else. What a storm is passing through, she thinks, even as the flickering of his lamp serves as the only whipcrack of lightning. What a beautiful day wasted.

"Soul," she says urgently, heart leaping into her throat. "Soul, we can do this. I know we can."

He breaks in her hands, eyes fluttering shut, throat clenching as he swallows thickly. "... I can't-"

"Soul, please-"

His stare is red-hot. He jerks away, suddenly, ducking out of her grasp, scuttling back into his bed. The space is cold without him, and yet her eyes still feel hot, teardrops streaming down her face. Soul stares at her, chest heaving, legs akimbo, looking shrewd and broken on his bed, gaunt and gangly. Then he loses his nerve, swallowing again, looking to her trembling knees, his tangled bedding, as his hands twist themselves in the sheets. Lashes fluttering, something passes over him, like maybe he's become the eye of the storm himself, and the calm is almost unnerving.

In the time it takes Maka to gather her heart, Soul's stare has iced over. How cold it is, to stand before him, more vulnerable than she's ever been before, and he can do nothing but glance passively at her hands, her shoulders.

"I love you," she mumbles. "I don't want to do this without you. Please come with me."

The lines on his face are so hard, now. Shallow, shallow cheeks and pursed brows and tight lips. He gathers his legs and tucks them beneath himself. "You know I can't do that."

"You haven't even tried!"

Blood has never looked so chilled. Such dark, dark eyes for a boy so closed off. Such a warm color for such a harsh stare. "Never tried," he mutters dangerously.

"You don't even want to be here, do you? We can just go, and I'll-"

"You think I haven't tried?"

Vaguely, she hears echoes of his father. Lazy boy, something whispers from beneath the bed, the monsters that keep Soul up at night. Selfish girl, the looming clouds above rumble. And instead of basking in it, wallowing in her mistake, in the cracks of Soul's overwhelming self-doubt, Maka leans on anger. It's easier to be angry than vulnerable, after all. It's easier to shout and blame and clench her fists than back down and bow her head, let herself really feel the whipcrack of loss slap across her heart.

If he is a storm, she is a raving whirlwind. Like a cacophony of hurt, she retches back, fisted-hands pressed to her chest, shaking. "I'm asking you to come with me!"

"And I'm telling you I can't!" he snaps.

The distance between them is more than a few feet. No, by now it is miles, and that closeness she'd felt to him all year stretches out, the tether wrapping tighter around her neck. How can she go on being strangled like this? How can he just sit there and pull the sting?

Maka takes a furious, quiet step back. "Can't, or won't?"

He pushes a hand through his wild hair. Caught halfway between bedhead and catastrophe, he looks older, somehow. "That's not fair, Maka."

"No, you're not fair!" she bursts, finally, like a dam giving way. "Y-You can't just…! You can't just make me love you a-and then try and take it all back, you big jerk! You asshole! Do you have any idea what it was like, trying to work up the courage to sleep with you? And for what, for you to ditch in a month? It's degrading, Soul! What, was I not good enough for you?"

The walls pile up around him, brick by painstaking brick. That scared, nervous boy is hidden away again, locked behind decrypt doors and pathways. And for once, Maka's unsure of how to navigate through his maze. Hell, she's unsure if she even can.

"It's not about that," he says quietly. His fingers pinch down the hems of his sleeves.

Maka could laugh. Choke her way through her tears and gasps and make a bigger fool out of herself. How adult of her, to be reduced to quivering, sobbing gulps. "Of course it is! It's always been about that for me, you-!" she stumbles back, very nearly shaking in anger. Stupid girl, what are you trying to prove?

She wants to hold him in her hands and crush him. She wants to hold him forever and hold him close, make him understand the soul-deep coil that he has over her, the spell his eyes and his hands have cast. For so long, it has been SoulandMaka, MakaandSoul, nearly inseparable, despite her temper and pre-sex jitters and his quiet, shy reservations. Despite everything, despite Maka not being his type, or whatever, despite Soul not allegedly finding Liz sexually appealing - he'd still found his way into her heart, into her life, weaseling his way into the cracks left behind by her mother.

And how is she ever supposed to go on, without that ever-constant? How is she supposed to go on, knowing he doesn't want to stay?

"I can't believe this is happening," she mutters shallowly, nearly out of breath.

For a beat, Soul looks caught between reaching out for her and tunneling deeper into that shell of his, but the moment he raises a hand she retreats, fearful of the hand that feeds. No more poison, she thinks. Her brain is numb enough as it is.

"No!" she shrieks, then proceeds to throw the snacks she carries down, bag crinkling as it narrowly misses his face. "No, you don't get to try and make this better! I- Sorry I wasn't good enough for you!"

"What?"

He shouldn't look so bewildered. She'd told him once that Liz had spilled the beans. She knows, Soul. Knows all about his little sexual experiment with his bandmate, supposedly just for science, or- or whatever. If Liz wasn't good enough to get him to feel something, how could silly little Maka ever hope to compare? What does she have to offer that Liz hadn't? Crippling trust issues? Tiny breasts and slim hips and fat ankles? Still, though, she'd tried. Painted herself as a pretty girl, brushed her hair and forgone tying it back because he'd liked braiding it, worn short skirts and shaved meticulously to keep her legs smooth - just the way Soul liked it.

Or so she thought. Perhaps Mama was right; she should have never tried to change any part of herself to impress a boy. Boys never stayed, after all. Boys are only after one thing.

And Maka gave it up.

"I hate you!" she shrieks, pulling at her pigtails. Her blood burns hot enough to make her delirious. "I hate you, I hate you-!"

Soul's eyes are pretty when they're soft. Fool her once, shame on him. Fool her twice, well, now her mother's gone and won't pick up the phone and Papa can't keep it in his pants. Fool her twice and now she is single, for real, alone, two weeks away from the biggest change yet.

"No, don't-!" Her feet can't move fast enough; Maka nearly trips over herself, spinning around to rip the door open and storm her way out, shoving past a bewildered Wes.

The last she sees of eighteen year old Soul is a boy with an age-old soul, grievances etched into the harsh, shallow lines of his face. Eyes too deep to be trusted. And as she bursts free from the Evans house, the real world is painted dark gray, the rare summer storm heavy on her thin dress as her boots slosh through the murk of mud, nearly trampling through Mrs. Evans' flower garden.

When it rains, it pours.