A/N: So this is my solo resbang for 2015. Fair warning, it is absolutely absurd. It is rated Pg-13/T for the frequent appearance of awkward boners and for language.

Thanks go to the salt squad for all their encouragement and putting up with my alternate whining and cackling, to ashsocolorful and ifeana for helping with the art details, and to the beta squad, lucyrne, sandman, tenbris, makapedia, and ilarual, who nearly died of second hand embarrassment to make this readable.

Thanks as well to the resbangmods for being awesome and putting on this fantastic event, and to my artists notanirishginger and freakyfanart, whose art will be linked to my tumblr post as soon as it is up. They are both insanely talented, so I'm excited to see what they came up with! You can also find a playlist I created for this fic linked to my tumblr post.

It starts off like any other morning. Maka trudges downstairs to grab her phone that lay forgotten in the living room, looking for it hastily because it isn't where she remembers leaving it. Wrinkling her nose, she frowns at the unkempt state of the room, strewn with beer bottles and pizza boxes and video game controllers and even a bulky comforter on the couch. Then, she finally turns around to catch sight of her phone on the coffee table half under a pizza box and bends over to retrieve it.

She hears a rustle of covers as she does and a sleepily muttered, "Holy shit," then whirls around in surprise to find the lumpy comforter had concealed an occupant, one with wild white hair and startling red eyes. He is blinking up at her blearily.

"Hi," she says automatically, too flustered for something more coherent because she is in boy shorts and a thin tank top and the last thing she expects to find this early is a strange boy on her couch.

Clearly her roommates are overdue for another talk about house rules.

"Uh, hi," he responds, voice rough with sleep.

"I'll just be-going-" she adds hurriedly, before shaking her head and striding back to her room to shower and change, thanking the powers that be that she is the only girl in the apartment and has therefore been gifted the master with an attached bath.

Of course, being the only girl in the apartment also means waking up to strange men on her couch.

She idly wonders who the odd boy belongs to, Kilik or Blake, and thinks the second more likely since she's pretty sure Kilik went home for the weekend to visit the twins and won't be back until his Tuesday classes.

It hardly matters-Maka has class today and needs to get ready. By the time she finally is, the stranger is gone and forgotten as she heads off to bask in the wonder of Shakespeare's comedies.

Three hours later, it's time for Drawing 220, and today they start working on nudes. Maka has purposefully taken the section taught by her childhood neighbor/godmother, the same section that will see her godbrother on the posing platform. She has (unfortunately) seen Blake naked countless times (he has absolutely no body shame, a propensity for streaking, is a proponent of household nudity, and has even accidentally texted her dick pics meant for others, much to her lasting horror and amusement). While it might be a bit awkward to draw him that way, at least she won't sport the permanent flush that she'd feared she might while sketching a total stranger.

Taking an easel in front, she sets up her art board, leaving any other supplies she might need for when they're announced. Professor Miranda Nygus-Barrett enters the room shortly after, performing her initial lesson on the importance of shape. By the end of the lesson, the instructor confirms that the class will be using the same materials she has, so Maka bends over her bag to retrieve a 2B pencil and sketch pad as Mira begins explaining the goals for their timed sessions before asking the model to enter. Maka pays no mind, her back turned to the whole affair, busy selecting supplies and knowing just what she'll see in any case.

As the woman who is practically her second mother directs the model behind her (and Maka is in no hurry to see the parts of him she'll soon be drawing), she finally finishes retrieving her pencil and sketch pad, stifling an eyeroll at the sudden eruption of titters around her because she had expected more professionalism.

She stands up just when Mira announces, "Alright, class, this is Soul. He will be our model for the next two weeks of sketching male anatomy."

Maka drops her pencil in her shock because Mira said Soul, not Blake, and she should have realized this model is too damned quiet. Letting out a strangled, "But," she drags her eyes to the posing table and gasps because there, lying on his side on the table, flushing brightly and with his anatomy noticeably at half mast, is the mystery couch occupant from this morning.

Well, that explains the titters, anyway.

Maka goes scarlet herself as Mira asks, "Is there a problem, Miss Albarn?"

"But-Blake-?" she stammers helplessly as she wrenches her eyes away from the interloper.

"Ended up with a scheduling conflict, so I found a substitute."

"Oh," she says, voice small, eyes carefully on the professor, who has turned her own eyes back to the class at large and is firing off further instructions Maka has no ears for at the moment because sleepy couch boy-who actually seems sort of weirdly cute, damnit all-is currently in the center of the room, with a clearly growing problem, and she has to actually look at him long enough to draw him, and-

Well, she's a big girl. She can do this. Sighing, she walks over to where her pencil has rolled to and picks it up before marching back to her easel and, with a sort of dignified determination (or as dignified as one can be when looking at an aroused, nude stranger), lifts her eyes to scan his displayed body.

Oh crap, he really is cute, all tousled (natural holy hell!) white hair and tan skin and lean, taut muscle and fine features. She keeps her eyes on his face for a moment because she has to see him to draw him, not because he is actually really good looking, no. He has a straight, aristocratic nose and red eyes? Deep, sleepy looking, red bedroom eyes that are pointedly on the floor. They snap up at her small intake of breath-he is only a half a dozen feet away, damn her propensity for positioning herself up front-and she feels her flush deepen impossibly before she spins, digging in her bag for the knot eraser she probably won't need to hide her embarrassment. It's not like she's been caught looking-she has to look. This is stupid.

Maka steels herself, wills down the heat on her cheeks, and stands to position herself behind her easel, arranging her materials pointedly.

Once she is reasonably composed, she peeks around the easel at her subject, who has his eyes fixed on her easel, but who immediately shifts them to stare off to the side when her head appears. Fighting down yet another blush, she scans her own eyes down his body, needing to study his form to try to get the initial lines down since Mira has just announced they are to focus on full body shape this first timed session, and noting lean muscle definition, the white trail of hair that begins at his belly button. She follows it with her gaze to the glaringly white forest at the apex of his thighs and the-now fully upright member that stands proudly out from it. He is completely erect, a good, thick seven inches of perfectly serviceable penis, not that she would really know.

Unable to fight down the renewed color that is hot on her cheeks because why is he sporting a full blown boner in the middle of art class, she drags her eyes further down lean thighs and wiry calves to well shaped feet, then moves to examine with her gaze toned arms and long, elegant fingers that are tapping restlessly on the platform where he lays. She doesn't dare seek his face again-she is red enough, must be.

As red as those odd, intriguing eyes of his.

Her gaze shoots to his eyes at the thought, and she goes hot as she realizes he's staring at her again, and this time, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers a slight nod and grins widely, revealing two rows of pearly whites. Wickedly sharp pearly whites. She shudders and ducks back behind her easel. Time to start drawing the-albino shark couch invader. Class invader, too. Hopefully not dream invader.

Two and a half hours later, as Maka looks through her series of timed shape studies while other students pack up around her, she is well aware it isn't her best work. She can't help it, though. How can she draw a guy who sported an erection half the class, who was on her couch just this morning, who she might see around her apartment at any time since he is clearly a friend of Blake's?

Sighing heavily, she packs her own things, thankful that the models are generally dismissed before the class ends. As she nods towards Professor Nygus-Barrett on her way out, she is discomfited by her smile, a bit too knowing.

"Good class today. He's a good subject-great bone structure."

Maka merely nods again and strides away quickly before her godmother can spot the rabid blush she can feel spreading on her cheeks.

Two weeks of this? If every day is like that, she won't make it through one.

Fortunately for Maka, Drawing 220 is only three days a week, so she has a reprieve, a period to gather her frazzled wits and approach the next period with the poise and professionalism of a true artist. Not only is she certain that there is no possible way the model will be sporting wood for another session-that was a fluke, had to be-but even if he is, it's just an erection, a natural bodily function on a body like any other body. He's just a subject. She can draw him. It's not like his stupid boner is going to jump up and bite her. It will remain a good six feet away. Maka isn't a child; she ought to be able to deal with an erection from six feet away!

Really, she feels silly and childish for having reacted at all.

Stepping onto the campus bus with a small sigh-normally she would walk, but her next class is across campus and she doesn't have time-Maka finds a spot to stand, barely, sharing a pole with some tall guy in a beanie and leather. His back is to her, but the oversized headphones mean he won't hear her. So much the better. She really has no wish to interact with strange guys on the bus anyway. As she takes a sip of her water, the bus lurches forward, then comes to an abrupt stop, causing headphone beanie guy to slam back into her. She looks down, mortified, as she realizes her water has missed her mouth to spill down the front of her shirt.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Maka is positive her white bra is now visible through the thin white cotton of her button up, leaving very little to the imagination. She quickly crosses her arms over her now sopping chest, but not before meeting a slowly rising red gaze she's seen before.

Oh hell no.

Maka can't help her glare when he stammers out an apology, as red faced as she must be, and starts shucking off his jacket, thrusting it out to her.

"Here. You can-borrow it. Shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't-shit." He is visibly upset, so she takes the jacket with a sigh, puts it on, zips it up despite it being far too big, and as the bus lurches to a halt again, makes her escape at a stop far from her destination, unwilling to embarrass herself for a second longer.

Being late to class will be far better than this continued humiliation.

Then she remembers that he will be in class too-will be the star in fact-and she, for the first time since junior high, actually considers skipping.

But no. Maka will not be run off by a wet shirt, a klutzy art model, or his stupid ill timed erection.

Besides, she thinks as she makes her way towards the art building half the campus away, she has to return his jacket. His big, comfortable jacket that smells weirdly good, like a spicy cologne and something she can only describe as warm.

She is predictably late to class in spite of hurrying. When she gets there, the owner of the jacket she wears is already draped artfully on the table, and a quick glance tells her that he is mercifully flaccid. Ignoring the Professor's questioning look, Maka takes her customary front easel that has been left (unfortunately) empty for her, putting her bag on the ground and bending down to quickly retrieve the pencil and sketch pad others are using before standing up to place them on the easel. She notices that the student at the easel next to her, a tall, proud girl, is sketching his feet, so they must be doing studies of particular parts today. Smoothing down her little schoolgirl skirt, Maka takes a breath and then lets her eyes shift to the model on the table.

The model who is flushed a red so deep it is visible even over his lightly tan skin.

The model who is sporting yet another boner, again rising loud and proud from the forest of white hair at the apex of his thighs.

But-but it wasn't-or hadn't been-

Red again herself, Maka ducks back down behind the easel, cursing her luck, cursing her lack of composure, cursing Blake for ditching out, cursing Mira for allowing this guy to take his place, cursing all of it.

Calm calm calm. This is stupid. It's just an erection. Just a naked stranger. Who cares if he's weirdly cute and his jacket smells good?

Not her. Nope.

Firming her resolve, she looks back out past the easel, meeting his gaze boldly, and is satisfied when he's the first to look away, redder than ever, yet his boner no less obvious for his embarrassment as he keeps his eyes down and she surveys his feet to draw them.

When class ends later, he is long gone, and Maka finds she is not sorry to have to hang onto his jacket until next time.

Another day gone, Maka sits in her apartment, studying at the kitchen table, when there's a clatter at the front door and Blake comes barreling in in his usual bull in a china shop fashion.

She hasn't seen him since all this started-he's been crashing elsewhere, probably passed out drunk on the frat party scene-and now that she has her chance, she has a bit of pent up anger over her current situation.

"You!" she hisses. "Why the hell did you ditch out of modeling for Mira?"

He shrugs, unapologetic as he walks past her perch to rummage through the fridge, grabbing her orange juice and drinking from the carton.

"Had other shit to do. I found a replacement, so who gives a fuck? I mean, I know you can't get enough of my godly physique and all, but I figured you've seen it enough, and my man Soul isn't exactly hard on the eyes, amiright?"

Maka rolls her own eyes at the suggestion, picking up her copy of Pride and Prejudice and throwing it hard, pleased as it hits him square on the forehead.

"What the fuck, Pigtails, I was just-" he begins to bellow.

"That's my orange juice, asshole," she sings out sweetly and he grumbles something about stingy roommates as he shoves a week old plate of leftover pizza into the microwave. She would protest, but she's long since discovered that he won't listen anyway and that his stomach must be made of pure titanium because he will eat two-week-old shit from the fridge and never so much as get a bad burp.

A minute later, Maka has her nose back in her textbook as Blake plops down his steaming plate of ass across from her and begins to chew noisily.

"Anyway, what do you care? Not like you haven't seen the goods," he finally manages between bites.

"That was the point!" she hisses, lowering her book with a death glare. "I've seen your nasty bits way more than anyone should see anything since you're a freaking exhibitionist, so I took the class you were modeling for on purpose. And then I go, and there's this-I mean-I wasn't expecting-" Maka begins to sputter, can feel the hot flush, and her fingers itch to hurl her poor abused book again.

"'S'not like you've never seen a naked dude before, and Eater-"

She cuts him off, shrieking her frustration. "You just don't get it! He's not just naked, he's-I mean both times, he's had-" She must be beyond red now. Can anger and mortification range to purple? Maka feels like it must have.

"Shit, spit it out, pigtails." He demonstrates his point with the food flying from his mouth. "What did big bad Soul do? Did Eater look at you funny?" He frowns thoughtfully, the change sudden and strange. "Shit, did he try something? I'll-"

"Noooo!" She's seen that look and it bodes only disaster. "Gods no, we've hardly spoken." Blake deflates and Maka lets out a breath. She might be beyond uncomfortable with class, but the poor model hasn't done anything to warrant being torn limb from limb by her well-meaning, impulsive godbrother.

"Then what the fuck, Maka? What's got your panties all in a twist? Or maybe-" he leers suddenly "-oh man, has he actually got your panties in a twist? Do you wanna hop on-"

"Ugh Blake no-just no-stop!" She waves her book threateningly and he holds up his hands in a placating move. She feels too hot. Why had she brought this up again? "It's just, he always has-I mean both times, he's-he-ugh-" her roommate is staring expectantly, so she finally blurts out "-he's always got a boner!"

The reaction is instantaneous; Blake laughs so hard he tumbles out of his chair, bringing it with him as he rolls around on the floor.

The rolling and wheezing and bellowing continue for several minutes, so Maka tries to refocus on her book. When Blake gets like this, there really is no talking to him. Finally, tear tracks down his cheeks, he pulls himself up, rights his chair, and sits, chin in hand, almost contemplative.

"It really isn't that funny," she says from behind the book.

"It is if you know Soul," Blake counters, and she can hear the waver in his voice, the struggle not to fly off his chair in a second fit.

Maka peeks over her book, eyebrows reaching for her hairline. "What do you mean by that?"

Shaking his head with a wide grin, clearly swallowing chuckles, he chokes out a half reply. "It's just that-it's Soul."

"-who is clearly a pervert, like pretty much every other guy on-"

She pauses as Blake holds his stomach, doubled over in a new fit of mirth.

"-the planet-what?"

"You-don't-get-it-" he wheezes out, then bites down on his lip to stave off a new wave of laughter. Maka can't remember the last time her oldest friend was this amused, so lost he can't even explain what the hell is so funny. Because, yeah, she'd expected the whole boner thing to gain a laugh, but this is-far beyond boner induced titters.

"Okay," he finally says after sucking in a deep breath. "Okay," he repeats, gripping the edge of the table hard enough to make his tan knuckles go pale. "It's just, I've known Eater since freshman year, right? And in all that time, in two years, I've never-not once-seen the dude so much as look twice at a girl-or a guy-or anyone. The kid is stone-I didn't know he could get boners. So for him to be sporting one-naked-in the middle of your art class? Maaaaaan-" he shakes his head, grinning as he runs a hand through his messy blue hair "-guy must finally have it and have it bad."

Maka makes a sort of strangled noise, and Blake tilts his head thoughtfully. "Well, either that, or he's got the weirdest fucking fetish known to man." With that, he falls over again, unable to restrain a renewed wave of laughter.

For her part, Maka has had enough. She still doesn't know why the art model is having such a problem, and she decides she doesn't actually care. She'll return his jacket next class and finish drawing him the like adult she's supposed to be, boner be damned.

Unfortunately, as Maka quickly discovers, some things are much easier said than done.

The next day of classes go well enough, although they generally do. She likes school, always has, and as a junior double major, most of her classes fall within the scope of her passion to become a children's author, all literature and art and education. Drawing should be another class she enjoys, but her steps are heavy as she approaches, dread and something nameless, something suspiciously like anticipation, sitting hot and heavy in her stomach.

She knows that wearing the jacket-his jacket-doesn't help, but she needs to return it. Maybe she hadn't needed to wear it all day, but it is getting colder, and running around with two jackets is just silly-plus it really is a warm coat, so it makes sense, right? Maka certainly isn't wearing it just because it smells good.

Walking into class as early as humanly possible to be able to park behind her easel-because it's totally professional to make sure everything is arranged just right before she starts, not because she wants to hide, no not at all-she has to wait outside as they wait for the last class to clear. She worries he could be there, but of course that's absurd; he'll be changing in Mira's office, waiting for the initial lesson to end so he can enter in a robe and nothing but a robe. In any case, it's stupid to worry when she needs to return his jacket. Maka keeps it on so he'll see it and she won't forget to give it back, warmth and comfort just a bonus.

There are only two other students there when they enter, neither of whom she's well acquainted with (her friends tend to have different majors), though the young Japanese girl sometimes tries to talk to her, eager, rapidfire, and gushing over how much she loves her style, how she also wants to write children's books someday. Maka is pretty sure her name is Tsugumi, and the fact that the girl remembers that Maka had listed her ambition to write children's books among the three most important things about her in her introduction is sort of gratifying. Maybe she should see if the girl wants to exchange sketch critiques at some point since she is clearly friendly. Couldn't hurt her to have more artist friends, she supposes. For now, though, she simply nods and smiles in return to the other girl's greeting as they both enter the room.

Taking her normal easel in the mostly (blissfully) empty space, Maka rummages through her bag, gathering supplies and placing them carefully on her workspace. While she normally waits for Mira's instruction, she decides that she will most likely start with charcoal today and takes the gamble. Once she has everything she's likely to need, she busies herself in arranging the different charcoal and her knot eraser just so, in placing her art board and drawing pad, in getting everything in perfect order. She can't help but feel her friend Kid would be proud, though Kid would never make it as an art major with his extreme perfectionist streak. Mathematics is far more his speed, numbers orderly and predictable, and the public relations minor somehow suits him. When he takes over his father's company someday, he'll be good at it.

Her thoughts are interrupted as the slowly growing cacophony of students prepping their own easels around her dies, replaced by Professor Nygus-Barrett starting her lesson. She is using charcoal and a drawing pad and Maka is pleased with her foresight. When her lesson is done, she emphasizes that today they will be focusing on light and shadow work before calling in the model again as she has every class this week. Maka ignores the sound of shuffling feet she has become eerily accustomed to and keeps her eyes on her blank drawing pad. This does absolutely nothing to distract her from thoughts of the guy she will soon sketch there, the same guy who is currently being instructed by Mira how to arrange himself on the table.

Once Mira is satisfied, the class is instructed they may begin, and Maka ventures her first look that day at the man of the hour.

She cannot help but notice, as she looks past her easel, that his eyes are on her again, and as she meets his gaze, he smiles. It's shy in a way that Maka refuses to admit is almost cute.

The fact she is currently surrounded by his scent, draped in his clothing when he wears none is not lost on her, much to her chagrin. The blush that has become a near permanent resident on her features during these sessions returns and she curses inwardly. So much for being a reasonable adult.

Maka nods acknowledgment, the slightest tilt of the head, before looking him over, noting with no small measure of relief that while he is (of course) nude, he is not aroused. Letting out a breath, she sets back to work on her sketch.

For a time, a good twenty minutes, everything is fine. She periodically gazes around the easel, readjusts her lines, rinse, repeat. Then she starts shading. The way the light is falling over him, she realizes she should have laid out her smudge tool since she'd prefer not to have charcoal all over her fingers when she returns his jacket after class. With a small sigh, because she would also prefer not to break her rhythm, she walks to the side of her easel, bending over to rummage through her bag. It takes a moment, the smudge tool hopelessly buried, but she finds it eventually and goes back to drawing, glancing at the subject to get her bearings.

He is red again, only a few shades lighter than his downcast eyes, and the reason is fast apparent as the awkward boner that was the star of the two classes before has made its reappearance. Maka colors too, floored, and ducks her head back behind the easel. What is with this guy? Maybe Blake was right; maybe he does have some sort of weird fetish. He looks so embarrassed, though, so honestly ashamed most of the time that as awkward as it is for her to see, she also feels sort of sorry for him.

Professional. Adult. She is both; she can handle this. She can handle the weirdly hot albino guy with the prominent hard on a few feet away. She can draw him and then return his nice warm jacket. She can.

Staring down her sketch, Maka tries to recall why the smudge tool is in her hand. Oh yeah, the pressing of his thighs-she needs to smudge the shadows. Well, then. Peeking around the easel to get another look, she notices he's shifted, the shadows falling differently, and curses inwardly, biting her lip as she has to continue staring at his upper legs, his arousal clear in her peripheral vision. At least she doesn't need to look anywhere near his face, though the idea he might mistake her gaze for resting on the one place she would avoid even more than his eyes has her blushing anew, her eyes darting that way of their own volition where she finds him looking at her, his face impassive if still tinged scarlet.

Ducking back quickly, taking in a deep breath, she steadies herself. This is stupid. Maka will be the grown woman she is. She will not be afraid of the hot albino shark and his propensity for perpetually awkward boners. Moving back, she meets his eyes boldly for the barest second, ignoring the heat of her face, then rakes her gaze back down his body to rest once again on the shadowed area she is sketching, taking it in before returning to her drawing.

The hours pass as she gets lost in her sketch, in the play of shadow and light, and soon it is time for dismissal. Maka packs her things quickly, hoping to catch the model and return the jacket she has been wearing, but he is long gone.

Not quite sorry to avoid such an awkward exchange, she snuggles into the warmth of her jacket as she makes her way back home.

She's at the library the next day, as she generally is on a Saturday afternoon, when she notices him again. He's two people ahead of her in the line for Death by Caffeine, beanie, slouch, and headphones firmly in place. Maka might not have recognized him at all if not for their encounter on the bus, but now she is well aware of how he looks without his striking hair on display, and so his presence is obvious.

She's still wearing his jacket in hopes of returning it.

It's also cold out, though, and thinking she wouldn't encounter him in the Library of all places (or maybe just liking his jacket and not thinking much at all), she hasn't brought a spare, which means if she does draw his attention and give it back, she will absolutely freeze her ass off on the trek back to her apartment. Debating the cost-benefit of getting his attention and finally giving it back over not, the choice is taken from her when he walks away from the counter. He looks up as he walks past just long enough to notice her and make brief eye contact. He nods, smiles sheepishly, and colors slightly.

Maka finds it adorable, but quickly tamps down that stray feeling. She should not be finding pervy art models adorable. Nope. Definitely not.

Her turn for coffee, she takes note of where he's seated himself amidst the crowd of the busy study area and orders herself some pumpkin coffee and a scone. The attendant, with bubble gum pink hair and a scowl for most people, is a friend, someone she met in women's studies last year and bonded with over the problems of patriarchy, so she rings her up with a wide smile and her employee discount when she tries to pay, waving off Maka's money.

"Still owe you for helping me with my last lit essay," Kim insists, adding. "We still on for roller derby next month? With you on our side, we'll wipe the floor with the competition!"

Maka chews her lip and nods. "You said it's a game once every few weeks and practice once a week, right?"

When Kim nods confirmation, Maka responds with another nod of her own. "Great, yeah, I'm definitely in. Just text me details, I'll make it work!"

"Awesome!" Kim says, her smile so full of rare enthusiasm that Maka nearly laughs when it's replaced by a scowl as the next customer walks up.

So distracted by the exchange, she nearly forgets about the jacket and its owner until she catches sight of a mop of white as she weaves her way past the tables of the study area. He has removed his beanie for a moment to adjust it, just in time to refocus her on the task at hand. She really can't keep the jacket now that he's seen her, so, resigned, Maka alters course to his little table and plops down in an empty chair across from him, setting her coffee and scone down in front of her and her book bag to one side.

He doesn't notice her at first, his eyes on his textbook and his fingers tapping out the rhythm to whatever song is being piped into his ears through his oversized, garishly orange headphones. Then he looks up for the barest moment and catches sight of her across from him, eyes widening. He reaches to his phone to click something or other, then slides his headphones down around his neck.

"Hi," she says, and he blinks at her as if her very existence still surprises him, even though he'd made eye contact only a few minutes before. There is a faint dusting of red on his cheeks as he looks her in the shoulder. "Hope you don't mind if I sit here?"

"'S fine," he mumbles with the barest hint of a nod before moving his eyes back down to the study mess before him.

"It's always so crowded in here," she forges ahead. "And you've managed to snag a decently big table." She ventures to take a sip of her coffee, a nibble of her scone, but doesn't bother arranging her things. Maka isn't here to study; she'll do that upstairs. Instead, she's a woman on a mission, and she will see it through. "I'm surprised you don't just go upstairs, though. Much quieter."

Lifting his eyes again, he pokes out a hint of his sharp teeth as he chews his lip thoughtfully for a second, then offers the barest shrug. "'S too quiet. Down here, I just want the fuck out, so it keeps me focused on the shit I have to do."

That seems completely backwards-she'd be far too distracted by the crowd to mind anything else if it were her-so she says, "Ahhh," as if she understands, even if she doesn't quite. Then again, she really doesn't know him.

His eyes move back down to his papers after a moment, and it's her turn to chew her lip in thought. She may not know him, but he somehow seems so familiar nonetheless, and she's certainly seen all there is to see of him. Navigating the nearly palpable awkwardness between them is distressing to say the least. Well, maybe it's best to just get to the point, cut it off quickly.

"Anyway," Maka breaks their small, uncomfortable bubble of silence amidst a chorusing din of other voices. "I'm going to go upstairs to study in a minute, but I wanted to go ahead and give back your jacket. Thanks, um, for letting me borrow it." His eyes snap back up as she leans forward to shuck it off, and he shakes his head, putting out a hand.

"No, wait," he says more forcefully than she's heard him speak. "Got a hoodie," he thumbs to the black fleece hanging from the back of his chair, "and it's fucking cold. Keep it, you can give it back later."

Halting her actions with a frown, she shakes her head. "I'll be fine to walk to my apartment. It's not that far."

His eyes raise again. "Do you have another jacket with you?" His voice is steady, and so so deep.

"Well, no, but-"

"Keep it," Soul repeats, eyes returning to his work. "Looks better on you anyway," he adds, voice a low mumble, cheeks going red again.

Her own cheeks feel pretty hot suddenly, so she stands up abruptly, grabbing her bag and her coffee. "Uh, thanks-I'll give it back Monday, then. I gotta go!"

And with that, she hurries upstairs to study, his scent still surrounding her as she snuggles into the warmth of the jacket, her cheeks even more hot as she realizes just how much she likes it.

Sunday passes by, blissfully uneventful. Maka chooses to study in the apartment since her roommates are both elsewhere, marathons some Korean drama on Netflix when she's done, and tries not to think about the guy with the warm, comforting jacket and his weird propensity for public arousal. Mostly, she's successful, though it doesn't help that the lead in the drama sort of reminds her of him. She watches it anyway.

By Monday morning, she's restless. Maka had dreamt of him, of them, really. They were in the roles of the main couple in the drama she'd mainlined the day before, and by the end, there was kissing and a lot more than kissing as he'd had her pinned against the wall, the erection on display all week suddenly pressed deliciously against her thigh-

She splashes cold water on her flaming face, the dream vivid in her memory. Not only does he invade her waking thoughts, but now he's haunting her dreams?

Maka really needs to return that jacket.

Class goes well enough. She has a test in Shakespeare, but she's studied, and the essay she produces feels right. Though she's a little nervous as she hands it in because she's always a little nervous about exams, she's pretty sure she did well. Her other classes go by quickly, blissfully exam free, and then it's time for Drawing again. Maka is extremely early and hyper aware of the jacket she wears as she makes her way up the stairs; she both hopes for and dreads running into him before class.

The hall is empty as she waits, and other students trickle in to wait as well, but he doesn't make an appearance. Her sigh of relief as the doors to the room open and the previous class rushes out is mercifully lost in the accompanying rush of chatter.

Plopping her bag by her usual front easel, Maka begins rifling through it, figuring charcoal is the most likely medium again, but as she bends, she realizes she needs to use the restroom. Well, she has time. She hurries out and groans when she hits the line to the bathroom. Figures. The internal debate over whether to stay and risk being late or leave without having done her business doesn't last long-she dislikes being uncomfortable when she draws-so she stays, and several minutes later, returns to class ready to work. Unfortunately, she actually is late. Mira's lesson had clearly been short, and her near mother raises her eyebrows but says nothing as Maka rushes to her bag, noting the charcoal in use all around her. She's in jeans today and a V-neck sweater since it's getting cold for skirts, and she's happy to note as she reaches her easel and bends over facing the front that their subject is boner free. That should make giving back the jacket she wears easier, anyway. She rummages in her bag for several moments, picking through her supplies to gather what she needs for today. As she is about to stand, she realizes she might be giving both Mira and the art model a bit of a show what with the V-neck, coloring at the thought. Then again, it's not like there's much to see. She straightens, glancing towards the subject as she arranges her things to her liking.

The idea that they might have a boner free class had clearly been premature. The rod of doom has reappeared. He is red, and she is red, and eye contact is mercifully brief and intensely awkward.

Maka looks around the room. It isn't the first time she's wondered what causes his sudden onset of southern blood flow, but she's never bothered to investigate. Noticing that the big-breasted class ditz just behind her (she thinks her name might be May or Meme) is in a tight, low cut shirt, she figures she has her answer and moves on. The girl generally wears something similar every class period, so Maka decides he must have a real thing for big boobs. Typical.

She can't help but be a little disappointed at that, silly as the thought makes her feel. That she had even the whisper of a hope that a guy with a propensity for public wood would somehow not be a typically horny dudebro was absurd to begin with.

Her quick scan of the room also tells her they are doing timed sessions focused on closer anatomy. Hands seem to be the order of the moment, resting just a hint too close to his midsection for comfort. The thick, hard lines she makes as she continues her sketching are for emphasis, she tells herself, and the class period passes as it did last week. His boner dies midway through, and her scowl lessens, though Maka cannot quite shake her disappointment.

Eventually, the time for dismissal draws near, and as Professor Nygus-Barrett discusses their goals for the time between classes, Maka begins to shuck off the jacket. Even then, she is too late. Soul is out the door as she takes her first step, robe hastily tied, and by the time she makes it to the doorway herself, he has disappeared into Mira's office.

Well, she can still gather her things quickly and wait for him to finish dressing. She begins putting away supplies haphazardly, starting as she feels a hand on her shoulder; the professor has approached her easel and is eying her latest efforts.

"It's not your usual style, Maka," she notes thoughtfully. "It's darker. Almost angry."

"I'm-experimenting," Maka says as she pauses in her packing up. "I-I can change it."

"No," Mira waves her off. "Experimenting is good, though I'm not sure this is quite you-and it's definitely not quite him. Keep working at it, you'll find your happy medium. You still coming to Sid's party next week?"

Blinking once, she nods slowly. That's right-Sid's big 50th Birthday Bash. How could she have forgotten? "Of course!" she manages, voice over bright. She tries and fails not to fidget as she clutches the jacket more tightly in one hand.

"Fantastic! We want it to be a surprise, so I'll probably be texting more details soon-but no calls. Blake said you wanted to help with food, so if you could bring along some of your famous onigiri, that would be great!"

"Oh, yeah, no problem-just-let me know how many people and I'll bring some." She wants to tell Mira she's in a hurry, but she can't bring herself to be rude to the woman who has been more mother to her than her own mother.

"Great! We'll be in touch!" Mira says as she returns to the teacher's desk. Another student is waiting for her patiently there, so as they talk, Maka quickly throws the rest of her things in her bag and bolts for the door.

The door to Professor Nygus-Barrett's office is cracked when she gets there, and the office itself is empty.

For now, the jacket is still hers.

Maka sighs as she puts it back on, the smell still comforting in spite of the sexual preferences of its owner.

It's Monday night and she's relaxing with more Korean television in the living room, trying to drown the ongoing saga of Drawing 220 in cheesy melodrama, when Blake comes bursting in like a whirlwind, shedding coat and bag and shirt and shoes and socks and pants all over the floor like some sort of defective, molting bird before dropping down next to her on the couch. He has grabbed a bag of Doritos and a Red Bull from the fridge at some point along the way, and plops his feet on the coffee table in front of him, legs akimbo, with a happy sigh.

Long used to his antics, Maka just says, "You're cleaning that up," her eyes still glued to the television, before munching on another mouthful of popcorn.

"Yeah, yeah, Pigtails, whatever. A man needs some down time after kicking his sensei's ass."

She turns his way at that, surprised. "You finally beat Sid sparring?" It shouldn't be a shock, really it shouldn't, but somehow it is all the same. Sid is strong and far more experienced, but Blake has been nipping at his heels for years. Still, while Maka had expected this day to come, it's strange to think of Blake beating his father, and she wishes she had been there to witness his triumph.

"Well, sort of?" He looks sheepish, a rarity. "More like tied, but still! No one else has ever tied the old man! Big star like me, it's only a matter of time before I really hand him his ass."

"Sure, if you say so." He puffs out his chest, clearly about to go on a tirade about his godliness, so she quickly adds, "Congratulations on the tie, it is pretty impressive."

"Damn right it is!" he says proudly, eyes flicking to the screen. "You coulda seen it too if you weren't so busy with this lame crap. I can't believe you ditched MMA for this."

"Nooooo," she says, pausing the drama to turn to him because this is clearly one of those times. "You know I quit the MMA team because the nightly practices were too much with my majors. I told Sid I'd think about coming back in the Spring since I'm only taking five classes then. This I just started watching today after finishing my reading, thank you very much."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. So you missed my glory for lame reading. That's not better, Bookworm."

"Shut it," she says, elbowing him in the ribs. His only response is to laugh, loudly, and shove his face full of Doritos.

They sit in comfortable silence for a time as Maka unpauses the drama she has been watching and Blake watches with her. He doesn't complain about her viewing choice; she's watched enough bad horror films with him to last a lifetime, and he knows it. Her mind is blissfully blank for a few minutes, wiped clean by popcorn, a ridiculous cross-dressing scene, and the crunch of Doritos, when the male love interest offers the protagonist his jacket after she is doused in freezing water, and suddenly, Maka is dragged back into the land of attractive albinos and awkward boners she has been trying so hard to leave. Well, he is Blake's friend, isn't he? She should just-get his number and arrange to hand over the thrice damned jacket.

"Hey, Blake?" she says quietly, turning her eyes his way.

His response is muffled by a mouth full of chips before he swallows audibly. "Shhhhh, it's getting good," he snaps. He's not wrong-the leads are about to kiss, the woman's gratitude for the jacket overflowing-but Maka really doesn't need to see that while her head is full of the owner of her own borrowed outerwear, so she clicks pause to a curse and a loud, "What, already?"

"I need Soul's number." It's not a request.

Sharp green eyes turn her way, eyebrows raised then waggling as he leers at her. "Why, you like the goods?"

"N-no!" she sputters, her face going nuclear in just under 1.5 seconds. "I have his jacket, and I need to-"

"Oh ho!" Blake cuts her off. "I thought that jacket looked familiar!" His grin widens for an instant before it falls off his face like a dropped hot coal, and he suddenly frowns in thought. "Wait, are you two hooking up behind my back? Because I don't approve of my minions-"

"What?" she screeches, punching his arm at the very implication. "NO! He just spilled water on me and so he loaned it to me and I need to give it back! We-I don't even know his number, and we've barely exchanged two words! Don't be gross."

He relaxes at that, sinks back down from where he'd bolted upright on the couch. "Ah, yeah, alright." Blake fires off a number, and she quickly pulls out her phone to plug it in. "Don't do anything with it I wouldn't do." The eyebrow waggle is back, so she punches him in the arm and rises to go to her room. Maka hears him restart the drama as she goes, but doesn't care. She's had quite enough of chivalrous jackets.

Thirty minutes later, she's curled up on her bed with her copy of Persuasion, trying to get ahead on her course reading, to lose all thoughts of jackets and art in the glories of Austen, when her phone vibrates. She puts down the book to check the screen, and as she has both hoped and dreaded, it's from him.

To her opening text of:

Hi, this is Maka from art class. I got your number from Blake. I hope you don't mind. I just wanted to return your jacket.

He has responded with:

dont worry about it u can give it back after next class its cool

Yeah, because that had worked so well every other class.

She quickly types up a response.

I'd rather give it back before. We keep missing each other. I can come to where you are when you have time, it's fine.

His response is surprisingly fast, her phone vibrating only a minute after she presses send:

its really no big deal my fault u had to borrow it but ill be in the u tomorrow at noon gotta eat sometime

Maka takes a breath, lets it out. She doesn't have class then, and while she normally just comes home to make herself something, she can definitely meet him.

Her response is brief and to the point.

That sounds perfect! I'll see you then!

Figuring that will be the end of it, she pockets her phone again and is surprised as it vibrates against her hip a minute later.

sorry again about the water thx for being so cool about it

Her face flushes unaccountably-there is nothing untoward in his text, just a simple apology. She shoves down whatever feeling causes her to go warm and pecks out a brief response.

No need to apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. I was stupid for having my water bottle open on the bus, and it was really nice of you to give me your jacket, so thank you again.

She also ignores the warm buzz of anticipation as she hits send, ignores how it crests as her phone vibrates.

no prob really does look better on u

Maka feels hot, doesn't know what to think, when the phone vibrates again.

ur a double major right? surprised someone like u is friends with star

These are less muddy waters so she breathes again and pecks out another response.

He's my godbrother. We grew up together, and he's always been friends with all sorts of people. Take you, for instance. You don't seem like the frat boy type, but you two are good friends and you didn't grow up together.

There is a longer pause, then:

yeah u know how he is he latches on and never latches off again

Nodding to herself as she responds, she can't help her small smile.

I know! He's so needy sometimes, if he didn't like to party so much I'd never be able to study! He's always in my face when he's home.

His response surprises her:

thats probably good u study 2 much

What? How would he even-and why does he even...?

Ignoring the how or why, because she cannot fathom, Maka responds indignantly.

I do not! Some of us need good grades to keep our scholarships, and a double major is a lot of work!

His response surprises her again:

i know but even future authors need to relax sometimes u should let me make u a playlist star mentioned u like techno thats not gonna help

Ignoring every implication-that Soul and Blake talk about her, that Soul knows and remembers so much-Maka proceeds to defend her music choices vehemently, and their conversation lasts long into the night.

Maka arrives at the Student Union before noon the next day because she hates being late and she's been tardy far too often this week. It's 11:50 when she approaches the food court, and it's as packed as one might expect at lunchtime on a Tuesday, clogged to the brim with bored, hungry college students. Slowing up as she enters the crowd, she sees an increasingly familiar figure-tall, ripped jeans, band tee, and grey beanie-standing under the neon U sign they'd agreed to meet at, holding an uncharacteristically animated conversation with an even more familiar, and characteristically loud, blue haired idiot.

"Come on dude," she hears her oldest friend practically shout over the general din, "you totally wanna touch her nipnops, tablebang her, and get your penisbutter alllll over her ladycroissant!"

Soul chokes at that, Maka notes as she draws nearer, sputtering and shaking his head vehemently before his eyes widen in her direction. "Shut up," he growls, gripping Blake's arm tightly and spinning him in her direction. Blake laughs as he catches sight of her, snorting and waving. Maka wonders who they're talking about. Probably May-Meme-whatever of the massive tits. Her stomach drops just a little as she approaches.

Grinning like a madman, Blake begins to walk away backward. "Hey Maks! You two have fun!" He spins off then, like the living tornado he is, leaving both of them blinking after him.

Maka grips his jacket in her arms tighter to her middle, more nervous than she should be, and shakes her head after her godbrother. What a nuisance.

"So," Soul breaks their brief, uncomfortable silence, eyes still in the direction Blake has disappeared. "You hungry? Wanna grab something since you're here and all?"

"I-" She's about to deny her hunger, to shove his jacket at him and abscond without further embarrassment and any sustenance, when her stomach betrays her at the very thought of food, gurgling audibly, the rat. It is lunch time, and she is hungry, but really? "-could eat," she finishes.

"Good, great. Pizza okay? Or you want something else? I can get the food if you grab a table."

She didn't expect this, hasn't prepared for it, had thought she'd shove the jacket at him and go. Shit. They had exchanged texts; he is funny and smart and snarky and she's enjoyed their banter, likes arguing and joking with him, but it is still difficult to connect the texts to the guy in front of her, the one who has been plaguing her art class for the last week. Well, she isn't a coward. She can handle eating a slice of pizza with him, perv with a strange kink though he seems to be. There are worse things than getting off on public nudity and big boobs, she supposes.

"Sure, I like pizza-veggie if they have it, cheese if they don't. And iced tea. I'll find us a place to sit." They don't meet each other's eyes, just keep staring off where Blake had been. It's strange, but keeps her from going scarlet in his presence. This way, she can pretend he isn't the guy she's seen every inch of.

"Cool, I'll be back," he offers, moving off towards the food court. She does not let her eyes drift down to the ass she knows looks sinfully good beneath his ripped up skinny jeans, no. Maka is not a pervert.

Table, table, table-her eyes scan the U with purpose, feeling more relaxed now that he's off on the quest for pizza. It's always crowded this time of day (it's why she usually avoids it), but seats can be had by the observant and enterprising. Fortunately, Maka is both. Spotting a fratboy taking up his own side booth about to get up, she shoots over before a second fratboy with a tray filled with every manner of junk food can. She reaches the table just as the first one leaves it, just ahead of the guy with too much food. Sliding into the booth unapologetically, she lifts an extended middle finger as he mutters "Bitch" under his breath; she might have felt bad, but he'll live, and she has no patience for anyone sporting a shirt that reads "Make Me a Sandwich, Bitch," with a picture of two scantily clad women each holding a slice of bread up to meet the other slice.

He sneers at her, hovers over the table for a second, but then backs off, and Maka grins sweetly in his direction before scowling down at the mess the other asshole has left behind.

Fucking frat boys. Her godbrother might be one of their number, but most of them have all of his ego and none of his loyalty and good humor underneath. She begins to gather the mess on the tray and slides it to a corner of the table, rifling through her bag for some disinfecting wipes because she does not want to contract fuckboy germs. Just no. She wipes up, shifts the tray, wipes again, and pulls out some hand sanitizer for good measure, which she is just slathering on as Soul walks up with a tray of food, the pizza visibly steaming. Sliding out of the booth, unaccountably embarrassed, she leaves the sanitizer on the table and grabs the tray of trash.

"Sit, I'm just gonna take care of this," she says hurriedly, breezing past with the nasty fratboy leftovers. He blinks at her, but complies, sitting across from where she had been after setting down the tray. The nearest garbage can isn't close, so she weaves her way through tables and people and tries to calm the unaccountable, ridiculous hammering of her heart because this nervousness is just silly. Dumping the trash and stacking the tray, she returns to see him rubbing on her hand sanitizer. He looks up at her with a smirk that she doesn't know quite what to do with, and says, "Borrowed yours, hope you don't mind," as he caps it and slides it to her side of the table. His jacket is still where she left it, on the seat next to where she'll be sitting. She wishes he'd taken that instead.

"It's fine. Best to remove all possibility of fuckboy germs." He raises an eyebrow in question, so she shrugs. "Fratboy was sitting here just before. Gods know where he's been."

Soul laughs at that, and it gives her pause. She's never heard him laugh before-never really exchanged as many words as they just have-yet it sounds familiar. It itches at the back of her mind, but she can't quite grasp why so she shrugs off the feeling as she grabs an oversized slice of pizza laden with veggies. His is laden with-she's not sure, really. Looks like some sort of soft cheese, maybe some sort of pink meat. It's one of those fancy pizzas of the day she generally avoids. Maka wrinkles her nose as she eyes it.

"What, don't like goat cheese, caramelized onion, and prosciutto?" he says, and as she meets his eyes, she notices the wide grin.

"Never tried it," she admits with a small shrug, shoving a bite of veggie in her mouth to avoid the need to reply further.

"You should, it's good. But then, not sure I should expect better from someone who thinks Michael Jackson was the apex of good music." Soul shoves in his own bite, and she narrows her eyes.

"He was the king of pop," she says after swallowing.

"And kiddie diddling, but hey." His grin is infuriating. Not dignifying that with a response, Maka roughly takes another bite. The more he talks, the more a certain familiarity tickles the back of her mind. It's irritating, like a buzzing fly, and she can't help her scowl.

A minute passes then two of just chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing, then slurping down soda. Finally, he makes a soft exhale of breath.

"Hey, I was kidding, you know. I've got nothing against-"

She looks up, sees how unhappy he looks, sighs. It's not him, or rather, it is him, just not for the reason he thinks. "I'm not mad, just thinking," she says placatingly. "How much do I owe you for the pizza, by the way?"

He waves her off. "Nothing. Consider it payment for soaking your shirt and having to endure my company today."

Her smile at that is genuine. "I don't mind your company." It's the truth. She actually kind of likes it when she forgets about art class and remembers their texts.

There is an increasingly familiar light dusting of red on his cheeks, and she smiles.

"You're not so bad yourself," he says, his return smile so goofy that she nearly laughs again. He tugs his beanie down, not for the first time, and she begins to think it's a nervous tick. "So you gonna start doin' MMA again next semester?"

Eyes wide, she nods. "How did you-"

"You told me," he cuts her off.

She did? And then the nagging familiarity blossoms into full blown memory. She did.

Soul is that friend. How has she not realized?

It was maybe a year ago.

Blake had a pack of friends over as usual; she was up studying, also as usual. Most of the friends had passed out in varying states of intoxication, along with Blake, but when Maka ventured for more coffee, she found one was still awake, sitting on the floor in front of the TV because the couches were occupied by sprawled out boy, flipping through channels idly.

The room was dark, the television providing the only light. As she passed, she had a sudden whim of kindness and said quietly, "Want coffee? I'm making some."

He'd blinked her way, beanie pulled so low it nearly obscured his eyes, looked around, shook his head. "Me?" he questioned.

"You," she confirmed.

Nodding slowly, he replied with a quiet, "Yeah."

"Cream? Sugar?" she asked.

"Sounds good."

A few minutes later, she came back with two steaming cups and slid down to sit next to him. Maka couldn't have said why other than she was tired and it was dark and lonely and she needed the mental break.

They'd ended up talking for over an hour that night before she finally shuffled back to study again.

There had been several other nights like it spread out over the course of the year. Maka was always exhausted when it happened, stressed and frazzled, but they would talk about things she would never talk about to anyone in the light of day. Her dreams. Her Mama and her Papa and how lonely her childhood was once her Mama left. And he'd told her things, too, about how strict his parents could be, how stifling it was growing up in the shadow of his perfect older brother, how much he hated it even though he loved his brother. How much he loved music and even piano but hated that he loved what he'd been taught to love all his life and wondered if it would ever feel right. Through all of it, somehow, he never said his name and she never asked and in the light of day she had never connected that the perverted couch invading art model and the boy with the beanie she had opened up to those few times were one and the same. He isn't Blake's only friend prone to beanie wearing, and it had been late and dark every time. Maka sometimes thought she'd imagined those conversations they were so surreal, the boy so different from her roommate's other friends. Not that she paid much mind to his friends.

That boy is Soul. That was the tickle, the familiarity.

He is looking at her expectantly, so she hurriedly fills the mounting silence. "I think so, anyway. I'd like to."

"You should," he says with a smirk. "Love to see you hand Black*Star his ass."

Laughing, she shakes her head. "Oh, he hands me my ass plenty, don't get too excited."

"Still." His grin does not waver. "Would be something to see you two fight."

They chew more pizza, slurp more soda, then Maka sighs into the renewed silence.

"I actually really miss it. I even agreed to do roller derby just to-I don't know-do something, because the time commitment is more manageable for me right now."

Two pale eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Roller derby?"

"Mhm," she nods, humming affirmation through a bite of pizza. "It starts soon, too."

"That might be even better than watching you kick Star's ass," he says with a chuckle. "Mind if I come to a match?"

"I-" she colors. Does she mind? She isn't sure, but the thought he wants to watch makes her stomach flutter oddly. "I gotta run," she gets up suddenly, grabbing her half eaten tray of food and her bag. "Jacket's on the bench. Thanks for lunch-I'll see you around!"

Hurrying through the U, dumping her tray, Maka doesn't look back. When did she become such a coward, to hurry away because of a warm look, because some boy wants to watch her skate?

She feels ridiculous. She is ridiculous.

Most of all, she misses his jacket already.

She's studying at her desk in her bedroom when her phone vibrates, startling her. Engrossed in King Lear and all its implications, Maka had forgotten where she was. Blinking, she scoops it up to see a fresh text from Soul. It's been many hours since she left him at the U and she didn't think he would text her anymore since the jacket is back with him.

Clearly, she had been mistaken.

u forgot ur germ cream

What now? She tries to decode the meaning of his message-is it English? It is, of course, but it makes no-

Oh.

Her hand sanitizer. She had forgotten it in her hurry to be away. Shit.

Thinking fast, because she's not sure she wants to talk to him so soon after she'd run away, she types in:

It's fine, keep it. You can probably use it more than me-you are friends with Blake.

His reply is nearly instantaneous.

so are u will give it back in class tomorrow

Before she can even think to reply, he follows with:

got a surprise too

A what? Her face heats though there is mercifully no one to see it. She really doesn't need any surprises from boner boy during art, no sir.

Still...

What kind of surprise?

Better safe. Better to be sure.

the good kind bookworm don't worry. btw u watch the new twd yet?

Ah, yes, they had texted about the show last night, and she'd mentioned she missed Sunday's episode when she passed out early. He'd missed it because he'd apparently had a piano recital. Maka wonders if he's any good. Remembering those long, slender fingers and how he had mentioned during one of those late nights he'd been playing since he was 3, she thinks he must be.

She replies honestly:

Not yet. I was thinking of watching it in a few minutes actually.

It's a weird question, out of the blue, but Maka sees no harm in telling the truth.

cool. wanna rabbit it together and voice chat? I was about to watch too.

He wants to watch The Walking Dead with her? Maka has no idea how to respond. She considers just inviting him over-he seems to want to be friends and she really doesn't mind-but after a week and a half of witnessing his public arousal, she is understandably hesitant. The texting Soul and the late night sleepy chat Soul and the boy she'd enjoyed pizza with earlier today and the guy who can't seem to stop popping boners in the middle of art class have not quite coalesced into one whole person yet in her mind, and she fears which version of Soul she might be allowing on her couch. She certainly doesn't want the return of boner boy, colors at the thought (she's been blushing far too often of late and he always seems to be the root of it), but online mutual viewing seems safe, so she responds:

Sure. Set it up, I'll text you when I'm ready.

There are worse things than watching a cheesy zombie show with a boy made of snark and boners, she figures.

There are decided butterflies dancing the tango in her stomach as she walks up the stairs towards Drawing 220. Maka tells herself it's just because she's sick, not because he'll be there. Not because she'd dreamt of him again, of them, and his anatomy had featured prominently in her visions of the two of them on her bed. Last night, they had watched the latest Walking Dead together online and it was fun. She had liked hanging out with him, liked his dark sense of humor, his quiet intelligence. And virtual hanging out was easier, more comfortable. He couldn't see her embarrassment; she couldn't see any untoward rise that may or may not have occurred beneath the fabric of his pants. If he had even been wearing pants. Who knew? That's the beauty of it. Maybe they can be texting friends, voice chat buddies. It's a nice thought. But seeing him in person is different, and that's about to happen again. She wonders if his hard on will make its regularly scheduled appearance, and figures it's inevitable.

Anyway, she really isn't feeling well, has opted to wear big fleece pajama bottoms and a thick hoodie to class because her head is throbbing and her body is achy and she has no patience today for real clothes. Not like it matters what she looks like, really. Finishing her trek upstairs, she finds that others are already in class as she enters just before the professor is about to begin her lesson. Maka had parked herself on a couch in the U between classes and passed out-it is a minor miracle she has made it at all.

Class begins, Maka pays attention as well as she can manage through the steady ache in her temples, the fuzzy cotton filling her head. Charcoal again, she can do this. Close study, pick a part. Fine. He comes in and is instructed how to sit. Maka chooses his hands as her focus. She likes his hands. They are long fingered and smooth. Beautiful, really.

About halfway through class she notices he's looking at her with something like concern. Has he been staring at her all along? She takes occasional peeks towards his eyes and thinks that yes, he must have been. He certainly is now. She smiles shyly in acknowledgement and then focuses again on her work.

Somehow, miraculously, the boner has not made an appearance. Maka realizes this as class is nearing completion and does a quick sweep of the room with her gaze out of sheer curiosity. Me-may of the Giant Gazoongas is MIA. Of course.

As if there has been any question, Maka now has irrefutable confirmation that the model in front of her has a massive thing for huge boobs. Pretty much like most guys she's ever met. Echoes of "tiny tits" dance through her head. Middle school had been hell, and while Maka knows she's attractive and isn't really looking for romance anyway, it's hard not to feel a little disappointed. When she talks to him, texts him, Soul seems so different from the throngs of fuckboys who infect the school like a sickness, but he is a typical guy after all.

Well, it's not like she had ever expected otherwise, not really. She tamps down on the ridiculous feeling of inadequacy because she's better than that and she knows it, and the rest of the class passes without incident.

Mostly, anyway. Near the end, as Soul robes back up, he fishes in the pocket of said robe as he approaches her easel. There is something in his hand and he holds it out. It's her hand sanitizer, so she snatches it quickly, embarrassed that he has approached her in class in only a robe. He then pulls something else from his pocket and holds it out in his palm. It's a flash drive.

Soul is flushed but grinning as he says, "Told you I had a surprise." Then he's gone, fleeing quickly out the door, and she is left red faced and wondering just what it is he has seen fit to gift her.

It turns out the flash drive is full of music. He had mentioned making her a playlist before, and he has delivered several, each with a different one word name, some obvious like "Studying" or "Exercise," others more cryptic like "Feelings" or "Mood." So far, she has stuck to the "Studying" mix, avoiding the more questionable one word choices. It is far from her usual taste, full of mostly instrumental pieces-classical and jazz-but she finds it soothing. Maka couldn't have said why (music has always been beyond her), but it does help her relax and focus, so she chooses not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or rather her gift music in the flash drive.

Entering the apartment with the study mix currently flooding her ear buds the following afternoon, she doesn't expect the place to be occupied. Kilik had mentioned he has a date, so Maka should have the place to herself. Normally, she spends her Thursday evenings at the library, but why bother when she can have peace and quiet in her own apartment for once? She's feeling much better, and a night to herself sounds nice. She'll make herself dinner and then hunker down with her upcoming projects. Productivity wins.

It is not to be.

Someone is home, on the couch. Actually, make that two someones. The lights are dim, but not nearly dim enough to obscure her view of a shirtless Kilik being straddled by an equally shirtless Kid, who appears to be trying to examine her roommate's tonsils with his tongue if his positioning is any indication. The boys scramble apart to sit side by side on the couch as the door closes behind her. She's not sure Kid could be more red, but if the heat on her cheeks is any indication, Maka rivals him in color.

"Sorry-I didn't know you'd be home-I'll just be going," she says hurriedly, not even bothering to pull out her earbuds as she turns on her heel and goes back the way she came.

Really, she shouldn't be this embarrassed. She has walked in on Blake more times than she can count-the boy has zero shame-and she always just tosses a pillow in his face, tells him to get a fucking room, and disappears to her own.

This shouldn't be different but it is somehow, partially because Kilik is normally more discrete, and partially because it's Kid he's with. Maka has known Kid since high school, even considered asking him to prom once because he seemed safe. She had honestly believed he was asexual since he's never seemed interested in anyone. Apparently, she had been gravely mistaken. Still, mistaken sexuality aside, for one of her oldest friends to be on her couch with her roommate is strange and more than a little disconcerting.

Maka will process it eventually, but for now, she needs food and she needs to study, so she wanders down the streets towards where she knows she'll find restaurants, and lets Miles Davis soothe nerves that have been rubbed just a bit too raw for comfort. Embarrassment, it would seem, is in her cards for the foreseeable future.

Sighing as she approaches the all night diner across from campus, she fishes out her phone to flick through her new playlists and lights on the one called "Feelings." She needs a distraction and this seems like a start.

The first song is "At Last," by Etta James. It's soothing and she tries to immerse herself in it as she walks through the door.

The hostess recognizes her (night study sessions here are not infrequent since comfort food and good coffee 24 hours is a fairly enticing draw) and leads her to her favored corner. The booth is garishly red like every booth in the place, and Maka is struck as they draw nearer by a mop of startling white against the opposite side.

He sits with his eyes closed in sleep or thought, she doesn't know. Papers-she thinks it might be sheet music based on the lines-are strewn all over the table, along with a cup of coffee and some half eaten pie. His jacket rests prominently next to him on the booth. She makes a surprised noise in the back of her throat, she can't help it, though she manages not to say his name.

It hardly matters. His eyes fly open anyway, locking on hers. Skin flushing visibly beneath his tan, he manages a smile and she clicks off her phone and pulls out her earbuds. She was raised better than to be rude, much as she's confused by seeing him here.

"Hi Soul," she says with a small wave. "Don't mind me, I'm just here to eat and study, continue whatever you were-"

"Here for the same if you wanna-" he gestures to the other side of his booth and gathers up some of the sheet music. "Gets crowded. We share and some poor sap won't have to wait as long for a table."

Maka nods. She really doesn't want to-doesn't see herself getting much studying done with him so near-but can't see a polite way to decline, so she doesn't. At least it's a distraction, she supposes.

The hostess looks at her questioningly, probably because Maka only comes here to study alone. "I'll sit here," she affirms, earning her a small shrug and a menu placed on the table as Maka slides onto the bench. Soul has the courtesy to rearrange his own things well enough to leave her half the booth, for which she is grateful as she rummages in her bag for the books she'll need for her upcoming project in Lit and avoids his eyes. This can't be more awkward than lunch the other day, she decides, forcing herself to think of him as that snarky yet also insightful and nice guy she's talked to several times late at night or the guy she exchanges witty texts with, not the hot naked model who has plagued her in class and haunted more than one recent dream, much to her everlasting chagrin.

As if he'd be interested in her when he's so busy staring at Mayme of the Mountains.

As if she should actually be interested in a guy who keeps springing wood while naked in front of a class.

That she can't help but like him is beside the point because she really, really shouldn't.

Having spent as much time as she feasibly can arranging her books and notes, she turns her eyes to the menu, still focusing on anything but him. She peeks up long enough to see his own eyes on her, though he darts them quickly away. Maka wills down a blush. She will not blush, damn it all, not again, not for him, not over absolutely nothing. The fact she's sure she only half succeeds in maintaining her normal pallor causes her to keep her eyes on the menu another minute longer. She doesn't need to look; she knows what she wants and has known since before she walked in. It's not like he knows that, though, and she finds her composure elusive, hovering somewhere between memories of pouring her heart out to him in the middle of the night and visions of the same everlasting rod of doom that had haunted the last few night's dreams.

Eventually, the waitress appears. She knows the girl. Her name is Patti and they are friendly, have hung out several times together with Tsubaki and her sister Liz, who began dating last semester.

Patti looks between them and says, "Lemme guess, Monte Christo and coffee, and another slice of pie for the gentleman?"

Maka nods her assent, Soul says yeah, and Patti is absconding with Maka's menu shield as she looks between them again. "You two, huh?" she says with a slight smack of her gum. "Shoulda figured. You're still joinin' our derby team, right? You should invite him. He's cute."

Leaving no chance to respond, Patti flounces off. Maka goes scarlet for the umpteenth time that week and has to stifle a nearly hysterical giggle when she realizes her companion is just as red, his mouth hanging open as he stares after Patti before he snaps it shut.

"Forgot you two were friends," he grumbles, running a hand through his currently beanieless hair. She likes his hair. It's a strange color, sure, but it looks soft. Very touchable. Not that she's touched it. Not that she ever will.

Reigning in her wayward train of thought, she shrugs. "Yeah, I've known Patti since freshman year. She's a trip."

"That's one way to put it," he says with a shake of the head, and she can't help it, she laughs, so he laughs, and it feels sort of nice.

"How do you know Patti anyway?" Maka asks as her laughter finally dies down.

"From here." He waves a hand. "Don't always sleep well, and Patti works the night shift a lot. Not that I gotta tell you-you're in here almost as much as I am." She is in a lot in the wee hours, especially during midterms and finals, but she doesn't remember seeing him.

Except, it clicks suddenly, she sort of does remember a guy slouched with a beanie that Patti would chat with sometimes. Oh.

Maka generally considers herself a pretty observant person, so how she has talked to him and yet so constantly missed his presence she really doesn't know. Chalk it up to being utterly consumed by her studies and inherently distrustful of most strange men. Whatever, she's made the connection now, and the frequency with which they've been in each other's spheres is strange. It kind of makes her feel inexplicably warm, which is just stupid. Maybe he makes her stupid. He's a bad influence, clearly. She should definitely stay away.

Not that life has made that easy the past two weeks. Not that she actually wants to.

He's looking at her, almost expectantly. "Yeah, I study a lot," she agrees.

"Too much," he says with a nod. "Or so Star is always bitching. Then again, he doesn't even break the plastic on his books some semesters, so." He shrugs and she smiles.

"Yeah, sometimes I don't know why he bothers to even buy them-or how he manages to pass his classes. It might be with a C-," she makes a face, "but still."

"Maybe you helping him study for finals has something to do with it," he remarks casually.

"He told you that?"

Soul shrugs again. "Once, when he was drunk off his ass."

"Can't let him fail-even if he deserves it. He's-I don't know-he's my godbrother." Maka sounds more sheepish than she means to, but she can't help it. Her helping Blake has always been a quiet thing. Not embarrassing but-not something people would expect, she thinks, the studious nerdling helping the loud frat boy to pass. Then again, no one expects them to be friends, either. They don't realize that she's just as loud as he is when she has a mind to be, that they had bonded over fights and pranks and a shared childhood. She knows he doesn't have the attention span to study all the time, so she helps him. Makes it into a game. They have always looked out for one another, in their way, and this is no different.

Not that Soul would know that. How could he?

"Yeah, he has a way of getting under your skin, I guess." Her boothmate looks sympathetic as he talks, which surprises her. "When I first saw you guys together, thought maybe you were his girlfriend."

"Really?" She feels her eyebrows climb.

"Yeah, though when I asked, he nearly decked me and called me fucking gross before he laughed for an hour."

"Sounds right," she says drily.

"Anyway, I could tell he cared about you. Didn't take long to figure out why." His voice is quiet and steady and he doesn't quite meet her eye. She will not blush she will not blush she will not blush.

She blushes. Her body is useless around him. When has she become this silly?

Stupid boy. Stupid her. Stupid body. Stupid boner.

That has her even more red. Maka figures she should say something. Anything.

"Uh, thanks. I can-I can see why he likes you, too."

That's safe, right? Friendly feelings. They are becoming friends, maybe. That he also goes red at her words doesn't quite elude her, though why she can't guess. Maybe he can't take a compliment.

Their food arrives then, mercifully, and they talk about other things, movies and music and The Walking Dead. As they finish eating, they each focus on studying-it's why they have come, after all-and she's surprised by how companionable it is. Maka glances at him on occasion and usually he is absorbed in the staffs and notes spread before him, scribbling furiously. Once or twice she catches his eyes on her and she smiles and he smiles and it's nice.

Maybe they can be more than texting friends. Maybe they can be actual friends. Maybe time with him is possible. She thinks she'd like that. She guesses he might, too.

Hours pass, more pie is ordered and more coffee consumed, and eventually, she needs to get home and sleep. Soul offers to drive her-he drove he says, has to go home himself anyway-and Maka is about to refuse, but his look is so earnest she can't, so she thanks him and says yes.

The orange monstrosity parked at the curb is one she's seen before, though she never connected it to him. A motorcycle. Of course a ride would entail being pressed to his back. Of course.

Soul offers her his jacket-it's too cold for just her hoodie, he insists, and besides, if anything happens it would be his fault, so he'd feel better with her in the leather. The look she gives is scathing as he shoves his helmet at her after. As if it's okay for him to get hurt because she is protected. She says as much.

"Guess I'll just have to get you your own stuff, then," he says, offhanded, before he guns the bike and her arms fly around him in her surprise. His words buzz in her head uselessly, strange static, as she snuggles into his jacket. It is familiar now, comforting and warm. She's missed it. He's also warm, and it feels a little too nice being pressed against him this way for her sanity and future dreams. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Maka just doesn't know anymore, her apartment isn't far. She shoves his jacket and helmet back at him with a squeaky thanks and runs up the stairs to her door before he can reply.

As she works the key in the lock, she makes as much noise as possible, hoping to avoid a repeat of earlier.

Thankfully, blissfully, there are no boys on her couch; wherever Kid and Kilik have disappeared to it is out of sight, out of mind. Soul really has been a distraction and for that she is grateful.

Maka goes to her room and collapses on her bed. She feels numb. Her phone vibrates.

It's from him.

thx 4 the company. pat told me when ur 1st match is hope u dont mind. night.

He's-going to her derby match? They haven't even practiced yet! She doesn't feel warm, she feels hot. Friends, she reminds herself. He wants to be her friend. Meme, remember Meme. That's what he likes. And anyway, anyway, she has no business getting involved with anyone. Not with her schedule, with her anxieties about relationships, least of all with a friend of Blake, with a guy who can't keep it down in the middle of class.

She texts back-Thanks for the ride-not knowing what else to say. Tomorrow it will be over, mostly, except for the derby match in a few weeks. No more art model, no more boners.

Does she want it to be over? What is it anyway? Are they friends? She doesn't have any answers and it both thrills and frightens her.

With her mind full of him, she drifts off to sleep.

Maka really likes the "Feelings" mix. She especially likes the untitled piano piece with no listed artist. It starts out somber, but ends up soaring by the end. It is dark and beautiful and she wonders if he played it himself. She knows he plays piano, that he is a reluctant music major, and thinks maybe it is him she hears. The song touches her, fascinates her, and she puts it on repeat.

She might not understand it, but it reminds her of him, and she finds she likes that. Listening to her mix as she walks across campus, the air brisk, the sky dark and overcast, she tries not to think about the one who made the mix, the one who had invaded her dreams again last night, doing sinful things with his mouth. It is his last class as their model, and since she has decided that she owes him for the mix, she intends to offer him dinner after class. She thinks maybe they can be friends. If she can stomach living with Blake, surely a friendship with cute boner guy is possible, right? Right.

The art building comes into view and she slows her pace. Maka doesn't really want to see him before class, would rather talk to him when no one else is there to see. Will he even want to share a meal with her?

It's a stupid question and she knows it. All indications are Soul is up for being friends. He's kept up their texts, he suggested a movie, he gifted her with music. Dinner is surely not outside the bounds he has set. Not that she has any boundaries herself, she realizes. She should-she has always kept her distance with boys-but he's different in a way she can't put her finger on. All she knows is she likes spending time with him.

That she is willing to cross the friendship line into the "kind of sort of really like you line" is probably evidenced by the effort she put into her clothes today, but she refuses to acknowledge that. There is nothing wrong with looking good. She has her favorite little flouncy skirt on, along with a soft sweater, and feels pretty. Maybe not Meme curvy, but her legs are nothing to sneeze at and this skirt shows them off nicely.

Well, then.

Reaching the classroom just before it's time to begin, she listens to Mira's instructions with interest. They are to spend their time on a full body sketch, their smaller studies done. It is the culmination of their study of the male nude, a charcoal drawing. Maka feels ready to do this. Lord knows his nude form has been in her head often enough.

Soul comes out as he always does, robed and slouchy, and as the professor gives him posing instructions, Maka bends over her bag to get out her charcoal and erasers, along with her sketchpad.

After getting up and arranging things on her easel, she gets her first good look at him this class period. The boner is back, standing tall. This should not surprise her, it really shouldn't, but she has come to think of him as so much more than just boner guy that it does anyway. Maka glances back to notice the return of Memay of the Massive Hills, shirt cut low, and has to suppress a sigh. Maybe dinner is a mistake.

She focuses on her drawing instead. Mira has instructed him to shift periodically between a few poses to give them options, and Maka decides she likes the pensive, seated pose, the one where his back is to her. The fact that it omits his penis from the equation is a bonus, of course, but the real draw is the chance to sketch his back musculature. She likes this pose on him. It suits him in a way she can't quite name but is eager to draw.

Her earbuds serve her well. The professor doesn't mind if they listen to music while they sketch, so she does, putting the piano piece back on loop. She works as well as she can as he changes positions and lets his music (for even if he didn't play it, he had certainly chosen it) guide her strokes, keeping her eyes largely to her easel. Eventually, his offending obelisk deflates once more, and his color becomes far less red. She suspects her own does as well.

By the end of class, she has a drawing she is fairly proud of. It is him in ways that go beyond simple lines, though she's not sure Mira will recognize that. She wonders if he will. Then again, it's not as if she plans to show him.

Professor Nygus-Barrett thanks Soul for his service, and the class applauds him as he rerobes for the last time and moves out the door. Since Maka is finished, she quickly gets her things together. She already has the portfolio she must hand in for the past two weeks prepared, so she slips the latest drawing in the back and hands it to her godmother with a sheepish grin and a mention she's in a hurry. Mira waves her off-the rest of the class is finishing up, so she is occupied enough. Maka hurries off to Mira's office hoping to catch the model. She is thankful that the office is around the corner from the classroom; it is away from both stairs and elevator, and therefore, not subject to end of class traffic. It's embarrassing, to be waiting for the model who has sported prominent wood for two weeks, the same model who approached her during the end of class their last meeting, but she figures she can survive a little embarrassment. Her father is a walking sack of constant mortification for her, after all.

Not sure if she's thankful that she clearly hasn't missed him-she can hear noise on the other side of the door-Maka waits quietly. She has taken her earbuds out and considers replacing them in her ears, but decides against it. Really, this nervousness is silly. She's just asking him to share a meal, as friends often do, to pay him back for his thoughtful gesture. Probably, it will be easier once their time in class is past them, once his constant public arousal is a distant, humorous memory. Maka can't help but to wonder what he thinks about the whole ordeal. Is it funny to him? She thinks maybe not from his red hue and poker face during class, but maybe in time.

She knows Blake finds it beyond hilarious. Probably, she will too given a few weeks. Boners really are pretty ridiculous.

The model of the hour emerges after a few short minutes. His eyes widen as he catches sight of her across from the door, but he doesn't flee, instead approaching, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

"Hey," Soul says casually, poker face firmly intact.

Maka puts on her most dazzling smile in return, earning her a slight quirk of his lips. "Hi," she says. "Hope I'm not bugging you, but I really appreciated the music so I thought-well, if you aren't busy-I'd buy you dinner as a thanks."

"Oh," his eyes widen again slightly, and his quirk of the lips blossoms into a bonafide smile. "That'd be cool. Was just gonna get somethin' anyway. I know a great pasta place just a bit from campus if you don't mind me driving."

Tilting her head slightly, considering, Maka finally nods. "Okay, I guess I don't mind you driving, as long as you promise not to strand me or anything."

His laugh is contagious. "Only if you promise to be nice."

They start walking, talk turning to the dreary weather, overcast but not quite rainy, to how school is going. It is comfortable, companionable. When he's wearing clothes-jeans, t shirt, jacket, that ever present gray beanie-it's easy to forget he's the same guy she had been drawing only a few minutes before.

It turns out he's not parked nearby, but at his apartment, one of the more sketchy complexes next to the edge of campus. It's known for rowdy parties and car flipping exploits. Maka hates the place and says as much.

"'S cheap," he scratches his head idly. "Maybe if I had roommates I could swing a better place, but it's whatever." He shrugs. And she gets it, she does. She had refused help from her dad the first year, and it was hell. She gets it.

"Sorry." She almost mentions that with Kilik graduating this year, they'll have a room open at their place, but stifles the thought. Maka is not sure living with him is a good idea when he makes her pulse race, haunts her dreams. Watching him as he brings home Mountain Girl or whoever else seems like a bit more than she's willing to do. Friends or not, she's been witness to enough of her roommates' sexual conquests to last a lifetime; she really doesn't need to add someone she kind of sort of likes to the list.

"Anyway," he says as they approach his bike, parked next to the building with a cover, "your chariot awaits, milady." He's grinning as he removes the cover and shoves it in one of the saddlebags, then pulls something green and shiny from the other. Soul shucks off his own jacket and shoves both at her, and she takes them with raised eyebrows he ignores as he rummages for the black helmet she had borrowed before, then closes the bag and hangs the helmet from the handlebars.

"You gonna put them on or would you rather stand here all day?"

She works her mouth. It's another helmet and it's clearly for her. What?

"Told you I'd get you your own. I'll try to pick up a jacket soon, too." His grin is little short of shit eating. "Don't get too excited, it's used."

Even still.

"Soul." She's shaking her head in protest. He shouldn't have-they are barely friends. It makes her feel strange in a way that is far from unpleasant, floaty almost.

"Been meaning to get spares for awhile anyway," he says, stifling any possible protest.

"I, okay," Maka manages and shrugs on the jacket, zipping it carefully before donning the helmet. He mounts the bike and she gets on after, giving him room to don his own helmet before putting her hands lightly at his waist.

The ride isn't long, five minutes at most, and she finds she wouldn't mind a longer one. She likes riding with him. Soul takes the curves a little too fast, maybe, but pressing up against him to keep herself secure is nice. Maka likes his warmth and his smell. It's probably a bad thing, a very bad thing, but during the thrill of the ride, she doesn't have time to consider it. And then they're walking into a small, dark hole in the wall tucked into a run down strip mall, and she's too busy considering the menu from their little corner booth. It's early for dinner, so the place is practically empty. She sort of likes how quiet it is, how secluded. It feels a little like a date, and that's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Then she remembers that he has his sights set on another girl and deflates a bit. Probably, the helmet is for her, the jacket, too. He said he'd been meaning to get them for awhile. Maka was just the first beneficiary.

Friendship is good. She's never really wanted anything else anyway, doesn't have time for it. She orders herself some eggplant parm and munches on garlic bread idly as he does the same. Suddenly, this feels awkward rather than intimate and she's pretty sure it's her fault.

"So, this place is-uh-well the bread is really good," she offers. It isn't a nice place, more dark and dingy really, but so far the food passes muster and the prices are very reasonable. Since she's paying, Maka appreciates the gesture.

"The rest'll be good too," he comments after swallowing down some bread.

"I'm sure." She smiles, a bit forced. "It's a good choice. I really do appreciate the music, it's really great-it's been really good for studying and stuff. It was nice of you. You're-you're a pretty good friend, so thank you."

His nod is perfunctory, his lips turning down ever so slightly, his eyes sliding to the bread basket. This is far, far more uncomfortable than it should be. Maybe if she-offers to help him? She swallows down a lump at the thought. It would be the action of a friend.

"And I could get Meme's number if you want, since you've gone out of your way and all. She's friends with Tsugumi, so-"

"What?" His eyes snap to her face.

"Uh, you know, Meme-Memay-I think that's her name? From art?" She fidgets under his near glare, picking at a piece of garlic bread. "She usually takes the easel behind mine-" When Soul still stares, she adds, "-likes to wear-"

"Why," he cuts her off suddenly, and his voice sounds clipped, almost-almost angry. "Would you think I'd want her number?"

"Well, it's just-" Maka feels her face heat up, backed into an impossible corner. Why? How can she tell him? Shouldn't he know? "In class, you always-" she waves her hand "-you know. So I figured."

"I really don't know," he grits out, and she's never seen him so upset. It's absurd, this entire conversation is absurd. Then again, the last two weeks of his ever present hard on have been absurd.

Screw it. He's the pervert and he asked for it. "I mean, you're the one popping boners every class over her boobs, so I just figured you might want to actually talk to her. Excuse me if I was wrong and you just wanted to stare like a creep."

Soul goes absolutely scarlet, and she's not sure if it's embarrassment or anger as his eyes narrow dangerously. "So," he drawls, and his voice is eerily calm in contrast to his livid expression. "Let me get this straight. You think that this whole time, I've been getting it up for the girl behind you's boobs, is that right?"

She nods vigorously. "Haven't you?" Her expression is challenging.

His laugh is humorless. "Not even fucking close."

"Then wha-?"

"It was you." His voice is still calm. "Are you really that oblivious? Wearing those-fucking micro skirts, bending over every class-I-" He shakes his head, calm quickly becoming an exasperated stutter. "It was you!" he repeats, nearly accusatory.

"Me?" She hates the squeak in her voice, but she's so-so-

"You." It's emphatic. "Ugh, fuck." He's looking past her, at the side of the booth, anywhere but her eyes, has clearly moved from anger to embarrassment, but the pieces come together in her head in the most satisfying way. She had been bending over before it happened each class, she does favor short skirts, he has been trying to spend time with her. But still.

"But the day-last class-you didn't-and I mean, Meme wasn't there that day and I was, so-"

"Maka," he says, and his eyes meet hers as he sighs. "You were wearing your flannel pajamas and looked like death warmed over on Wednesday. There was nothing hot about it-I was just worried."

"You were worried." She's trying to process. Her brain, normally so sharp, is having trouble keeping up with all these impossible shifts. "Wait, you think I'm hot?"

His face meets his palm as he shakes his head. "Jeezus fuck Star was right. You are-so dense."

Maybe she is. He'd made her music mixes and bought her a helmet and-and hadn't Blake mentioned he didn't usually show interest in girls? So why her, why now? It's just so strange, so unexpected.

"I just-I mean-you like me?"

Face still in his hand, elbow on the table, Soul nods, not looking at her. There is another sigh, loud and long, and he finally looks up, still red faced. He's clearly looking at the booth next to her but it's an improvement. "I've liked you for a long time," he admits. "A long time. Used to see you around Star's apartment and thought you were-well, cute, whatever. Then we talked those times, remember? And, I don't know-" he sounds so uncomfortable, looks so uncomfortable, that she wants to reach out and grab his hand, anything to make this less weird. "It turned into a crush, I guess. You're just so-" he shakes his head. "And then, that morning before the first class, I wake up and there you are-" Oh hell, she had nearly forgotten that. That morning he'd been on the couch and she'd been wearing very little. She's flaming once more, but then again, so is he. "And then, I come into the stupid nude model thing and you're bending over, and I've liked you for so long and-ugh-" He's rambling and it's so unlike him, but she doesn't have words "-it was so fucking embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing. I tried to play it off, and I'm sure you thought-think-I'm some gross fucking perv, and I don't blame you, but I swear, I swear-" He's pulling at his hair in his agitation "-that's never-I mean, it's like my dick was Pavlov's fucking dog, in the middle of fucking everything, the moment you'd bend over just trying to-but shit, shit, I don't normally-it's just you. You." His face is in both hands just like that, and she's staring.

Maka feels oddly calm, the heat easing from her cheeks. He's so flustered, and it's-it's sort of cute, but more than that, he likes her. He likes her, it was for her, and he knows it's awkward, knows what everyone must think.

Soul said it wasn't normal and it's clearly been hard on him and she believes him. The boy she's come to know isn't gross, he really isn't, and it's sort of, well, flattering to know she has been the cause in a way that makes her feel hot and strange and reminds her of those dreams that have plagued her.

"I don't think you're gross," she says quietly.

"You don't?" He peers through his fingers, and she nods.

"It's not like you can-help it," she settles on. "And I've been around you enough to know you aren't some-some creep, whatever happened in art. So yeah, I don't think you're gross. Would I ask to hang out with you if I thought that?"

He lifts his head. "Guess not," he says gruffly.

"Definitely not." Her smile is soft. This whole situation has been so utterly ridiculous, but maybe-maybe it can have a good end. Mercifully, their food comes then, and they both focus on that for awhile. It helps break the strangeness, as she tells him how good it is and he says he told her so.

By the time they have finished, they are chatting again, both choosing to forget his recent confession for the time being. They come around to music, and he beams as she says the study mix helped her focus.

"And the 'Feelings' mix is really great! I love the piano piece, it's fantastic. I had it on loop during class. I know you play-did you-was that you?"

Maka hadn't meant to ask, but her curiosity won the day. He is suddenly sheepish.

"Yeaaaaah. You really liked it?" His eyes look so eager. She grins.

"I loved it! Your playing is so amazing. It felt-" she shakes her head. She has no words. "Who wrote it? I've never heard it before. It's so good."

Soul mumbles something she can't quite hear, and she says as much.

"Me. I wrote it."

"Oh my god, Soul! You-it's beautiful! Wow!"

"It's-it's about you." He's not looking at her, again, and her heart thunders in her chest. About her? "Or-how I feel about you, I guess."

It's far too warm. Far too warm. Maka blesses the server's timing as he slides over to ask if they need anything else and drops off the check. Rifling through her bag, she hears Soul clear his throat and pauses to meet his eyes.

"I'd like to-get that. If you'll let me."

She had offered to treat him, though, as friends. But clearly friends is less than what he wants from her, and she thinks, no she knows, it's less than what she wants from him, so she tilts her head. "Dutch? I don't like my dates to pay. I think-I think a date should be a partner, not some sort of benefactor." Because she's never been about letting people pay her way, but she doesn't mind if this thank you dinner for a friend becomes a date instead.

"Sure," he says with a small smile.

They pay. They leave. Soul drives her home, and it's sort of awkward and exciting all at once since they both seem to have decided this was a date. They stow their helmets; he walks her to the building door and she turns to him.

"You know." Maka looks down at her hands then up at him. "Blake went to a party, and Kilik went home, and I bought a movie I was planning on watching tonight, so if you wanted to, you know, watch with me, you could."

His grin is so wide it could blind, his sharp teeth fully on display. "That'd be cool."

Moving upstairs, Maka unlocks the door and leads him inside, directing him to the couch. She's never had a date over, can count the dates she's ever had on one hand, and it's strange and exciting. She makes popcorn, sets it on the table, walks over to pop in the DVD, and comes back to sit next to him on the couch. She doesn't take off his jacket and he doesn't ask her to. She really likes it and snuggles into its warmth as she works the remote.

"Warm Bodies?" Soul asks incredulously as the title screen starts.

"Thought you liked zombie movies," she says lightly.

"Zombie movies, yeah. Cheesy zombie love stories, not so much."

"Maybe it'll surprise you," she offers as she presses play. He makes a scoffing noise but no further protest, and Maka is surprised and pleased at how comfortable it feels to sit with him here. After so much awkwardness, it seems impossible, but there is something about him, something between them maybe, that eases her.

The movie is cute, cheesy sure, but she appreciates that it is a new twist on Romeo and Juliet, and while her date makes little jabs at the action on screen, Maka doesn't mind. It's fun, this banter, this rapport. About midway through, she grabs the fuzzy throw blanket she keeps in the ottoman, and when Soul edges closer to share, she makes no protest. It is both comfortable and charged, being with him like this. There is companionship and anticipation and her blood rushes in her head and through her veins, warm, her heart rate speeding and falling, speeding and falling at his heat and proximity and humor.

Maka likes this, likes him. They can be friends and more than friends and it's amazing, awe inspiring, terrifying. But then the movie ends and she has no idea what's next. Her experience with boys and dating is painfully limited, and this is so new.

"So was it so bad?" she finally settles on asking as she clicks off the movie, switching it to Food TV for sheer value of neutral background noise.

He shrugs, but he's grinning. "Was okay, I guess, though pretty damned cheesy."

"Yeah." Maka nods agreement. "I mean, the idea that love could make a person alive again." She shakes her head.

Soul laughs. "Yeaaaaah pretty fucking absurd, though the whole kissing thing was at least different."

Her eyebrows go up. "The whole kissing thing was the most ridiculous part!" she insists. "I mean, love like that may not really happen, but at least it would be a big thing. But being healed by a kiss?" she scoffs. "That's just silly."

"Oh I don't know." He looks thoughtful. "I think a kiss could do a lot. If the right person is kissing."

When did his face get so close? She doesn't know but she doesn't mind; his breath is warm and his eyes are searching and she sees red spreading, sees freckles she had never noticed.

Closing her eyes, she closes the distance. Their noses bump, but she keeps moving until she finds his lips with hers.

Time to find out what a kiss can do.

His lips are warm, and soft, and she can taste a bit of flavored something-the tube she'd seen him rub on them earlier, must be-and it's citrus. She likes it. It's only her third kiss ever, and she isn't sure seven minutes in heaven in high school or the attack of the slobber monster during her one ill advised college date really counts, not when this is so much better.

Maka has never understood the fuss behind kissing. Mouths are full of germs; what's to like? She thinks she gets it now. It is warm warm warm and she feels hot hot hot and his hands at her waist are so nice. She's the one who swipes out her tongue, curiosity and instinct both driving her, and he responds instantly, his tongue coming out to play. Oh god it feels good sliding along hers, it's hot, searing, eager yet gentle, and she's not just hot, she's on fire, she's burning.

All she wants to do is this, and the struggle not to climb into his lap, to get a feel for what she has seen so prominently on display for weeks is real, so real.

The struggle ends very abruptly at the sound of the door opening and a bellowed, "What the fuck?"

She screams and ends up on Soul's lap anyway. His boner has definitely made an encore appearance-she feels it against her ass as she lifts the blanket to her chin, as if that could somehow change what her roommate has just stumbled upon.

"What the hell, Blake, I thought you were at a party?"

Her glare could melt an iceberg, she thinks. Maka channels her white hot rage into it, though she cannot parse her sudden anger, doesn't care to. Defense mechanism, probably.

"That's what I'm sayin'," he says as he shuts the door behind himself and walks to loom over them. "Party sucked so I thought I'd chill with my oldest minion, and I walk in on this shit? Eater, you disgusting fuck, if you gotta shove your tongue into my godsis can you at least take it to your place?"

Soul's groan vibrates through her from her position, reminding her of where she's ended up, and she scrambles off his lap.

"Like I haven't walked in on you and some rando a thousand times." Her eyes are so narrow his face is all she can see. Blake looks so smug yet disgusted that she feels like punching him on sheer principle.

"I'm gonna-go." Soul stands, the cover shoved to the side. She can see his arousal is still intact, the rise in his jeans obvious. Her godbrother's face twists in horrified amusement.

"Duuuuuude no shit? I mean, Maka's awesome, but I was sort of fucking with you before, I didn't think you actually-"

"Shut. Up." Soul grits out, and his look could disintegrate steel. His eyes soften as they turn down to Maka. "You free tomorrow?"

Probably she should say no. She has studying to do. She just nods instead.

"Movie night at my place?"

Hopeful. Earnest. He is both. Studying can wait. "Sure." Blake is making gagging noises. They both glare his way for a moment before turning their eyes to each other again.

"Cool. Mine's number 42." He's grinning and it makes her tummy flutter stupidly.

He turns to go, but Maka scrambles up and grabs his wrist, spinning him to face her before pressing a brief, chaste kiss to his mouth. "See you tomorrow," she breathes, and his grin is so wide his face must ache. They both ignore the mock vomiting behind them.

"Yeah," he says, and then he's gone, out the door with an extended middle finger towards Blake and a wave for her.

Sighing as the door clicks shut, Maka sits back down on the couch and Blake joins her, rifling through Netflix and settling on more Korean Drama.

"So, seriously, you and Eater?" he finally says before he presses play on the drama. His voice sounds teasing.

"Mhm," she manages.

"He's a good guy. You could do worse." She doesn't expect that so she turns to him. His eyes are serious, his mouth a thoughtful line.

"We'll see," she says eventually, because she thinks maybe he is a good guy. She hopes he is, but this is all a risk. It's the first time her heart is on the line and it's more than a little confusing.

"I guess we will," he agrees. "Totally willing to kick his ass if he fucks up, by the way, but I'm pretty sure you could wipe the floor with him, so."

She shakes her head with an exasperated laugh. "Yeah, I can take care of myself." Maka doesn't protest as he steals half her covers.

"Anyway, just try not to fuck on the couch. You have no idea what germs could be on this thing, and no way I sit here ever again if it gets tainted with Eater's jizz."

Punching his arm, she decides not to point out that it's probably already tainted with Kilik's jizz and Kid's jizz, not to mention his own. Maka shudders and resolves to buy a steam cleaner. Keeping movie nights elsewhere does seem best.

She ignores his yelp of pain and clicks play herself, done with any and all discussions of her love life. It's strange enough she has one at all; discussing it with Blake is beyond her just now.

"Nice jacket, by the way," he says as it starts and she punches his arm again.

Resolving to return it tomorrow, she hunkers down in the covers. Then again, maybe she'll never return it. She really sort of likes it, she thinks as she basks in his warm scent, like she really sort of likes him.

Head full, heart full, Maka watches Korean drama with Blake, thinking of boner guy, who has become kind of sort of maybe boyfriend guy, and looks forward to tomorrow.