Please note this is a Continuation of Jumping Feet First. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THAT STORY, YOU WILL BE SO SO CONFUSED. You can find the first part in my profile (if you can believe it), so please go check it out. I'm happy to accept any positive feedback, including constructive criticism, but I ask for respect.

Thank you for your patience everyone, and for supporting me from the start!

Him 1:

It's hard to know what's real sometimes. For example, the arm chair he's sitting in feels very real. The leather is plush and firm, like no one has ever sat in it before; it's comfortable and not at the same time. When Soul runs his hands over the armrests, the cloth dents appropriately, and reshapes correctly; the light bounces back off the surface as if it can't even touch such a fine material. A strong sent coming from it, as if just polished and primped from the store. It feels so real. A smooth, rich, dark leather arm chair. It feels so very real. Soul wants to believe it's real.

There is demon standing in the corner of the living room. The creature is staring at Soul with perfectly round eyes. It doesn't blink. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't seem to move at all.

The arm chair has to be real. He can feel it, touch it, see it, smell it. Soul has half a mind to take a bite, just so he can have more proof. He's so keenly aware of this arm chair. The leather arm chair has to be real.

This is real, Soul thinks. He's sitting in his chair in his apartment right now. This is the real world.

This is the real world. He is awake. There is no demon. He is awake in the real world right now.

"So adamant," the Little Ogre chuckles.

He is awake. Ignore the jazz. Soul is awake. This is the real world. Besides, jazz isn't an impossible thing; Soul owns so many records and plays them often enough on his old record machine. He owns one of those; it is wedged in a back corner of the living room of his apartment. In the real world. Which is where he is.

"Don't hurt yourself boy," the Little Ogre teases.

The demon is now by the floor lamp, only a few feet away. It keeps staring at Soul, pupils black and dilated. The grin on its face is wide and sharp, as if mocking him. Each tooth is like a bleached triangle, fitting within the other teeth with no room for gaps, creating a jagged crease within the confine of red lips.

Soul closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He drags both hands through his white hair. He tries to focus. There are no black curtains. There are no warped floors. There is no Little Ogre dressed in a suit.

There is only Soul, sitting in his leather arm chair in his apartment.

This is the real world.

"Breathe," Soul says. Or maybe he doesn't.

No. He did say that. This is the real world and he just told himself to breathe and relax because he can do that in his leather arm chair. In his apartment. In the real world.

This is the real world. This is real.

I am real.

"What defines reality? Is there any way to truly know what is perceived as 'real?' There is no way to be sure of anything," the Little Ogre prods.

Soul touches the chair armrests with his hands again. He presses each finger into the leather, creating dents in the once smooth surface. The cloth resists him, as it is firm and well-made material. The light bends appropriately to the new shapes his fingers make. He pulls his left hand back towards his face, and can smell the fresh clean scent now rubbed into his own skin. The arm chair has to be real.

Soul stares at his left hand, still pressed into the armrests. He bends his fingers just enough to get the tips of his fingernails into contact. Soul presses harder. He puts far more power into the motion in an attempt to dent the material. He wants to leave a mark. He wants to damage it because that will prove the chair is real.

He holds the pressure a minute longer than what would be normal. He hesitates on the lift, only to press his hand and nails back in again for another moment. His fingers tense, relax, and then tense again back into the leather.

This is the real world. The arm chair is real. Soul is real.

Soul isn't sure if he's blinking right now.

A red hand covers his tense left. The hand is large and distorted compared to the arm it is attached to, with sharp black nails. They scrape over Soul's skin. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but he can still feel the drag of not-quite-claws over the back of his hand. He feels the same sensation on his right hand: sharp and undeniable.

But, that can't be true. There is no demon. There can't be a demon.

"All this denial is starting to hurt my feelings. If I didn't know any better, I would think you don't like me, Soul 'Eater' Evans," the Little Ogre taunts.

The voice comes from directly in front of him, which is impossible. There is no way a demon is standing on his coffee table. Things like that don't happen in the real world. Soul stares another moment at the large red hand covering his own. Then, slowly, he drags his eyes up the arm covered in a black sleeve that is far too long, and catch the wide red head of the demon. The head is at least twice the size of Soul's own.

It's staring at him. The eyes are disproportional to its head, filling the entire top half of its face. The other half is covered by that sharp and sinister grin that seems to be a permanent feature. The body is thin and small; it doesn't seem like it would be able to support such a large head. The legs are so short too; they are miniscule compared to the length of its arms. Everything about the demon is off.

Soul shakes his head. It breaks his stare with the demon in front of him, but he can still aware those large black pupils on him. He can sense the wide grin. He can feel the weight of the hands holding down his own. He doesn't want to. He can't stand it.

"What's wrong, Evans? How can you deny what's right in front of you? Are you so eager to hide and cower? What a pathetic man you are," the Little Ogre growls.

"No," Soul denies. His voice is inaudible though. He feels sick and weak. He wants to yank his hands out and away, but he can't. His muscles are frozen.

"Always running away. You can't take the heat. Can't stand the judgement. You're a weak man, Evans. So weak and useless; no one can depend on you. You can't even depend on yourself. You are worthless," the Little Ogre continues.

Soul does manage to move a little, but he just sinks deeper into the chair. His shoulders are bunched near his ears. His eyes squeeze shut. His teeth clench as if in physical pain.

"Stop trying to pretend. It doesn't matter what is real and what is not. It's never mattered. Because I know the truth; you can lie to everyone, but you can't fool me. You can't fool yourself. Forget reality. Give it up. You can't believe it makes a difference. If you actually cared about reality, you would still be on the northeast coast. You would still be living in your family estate. You would still be attempting to play the piano and being a worthless, watered-down version of your older brother," the Little Ogre sneers.

Two pairs of teeth are on display. One set is wide and mocking, the other is surrounded by trembling lips. Burgundy eyes whip back and forth, looking everywhere but at the face in front of them. Black pupils, as wide as tennis balls, stare straight at the cowering being in front of them.

"If you cared about 'reality,' you would be facing it," the Little Ogre assures.

Soul flinches further into the arm chair. He can't speak. He can't be sure if he can breathe, and he's too scared to try.

"But you can't, can you? So pathetic. So worthless. So inadequate," the Little Ogre rambles.

Soul's eyes catch the demon's own. He's trapped.

"You're nothing like your brother. He's a musical prodigy, a born gentleman, and liked by all who meet him. He's practically perfect. The pride of Evan's estate," the Little Ogre states.

Soul gulps.

"And then there's you: socially inept, dark, and brooding. Your personal tastes alone leave much to be desired. Ah, and don't get me started on your actual musical abilities. Someone like you could never compare to someone like Wes; I'm amazed you even share the same name, Evans," the Little Ogre scorns.

Soul's breath starts again, rough and broken. He resists crying, but it's hard. It's so hard because everything that demon is saying is true. It's so true. It's painfully true, and Soul knows that this has to be reality because reality is cruel and unforgiving.

This is real. It is real because Soul is miserable.

There is the sound of something slamming just beyond his eye sight. Soul jumps, breath catching in his throat as he turns his head to see what the noise was. He can't, of course, but when Soul turns to face forward again there is no demon on the coffee table. He blinks, only then realizing he's in a knit-cloth covered recliner, worn and old. He's never owned a leather arm chair.

"Soul," a feminine voice calls, originating from the kitchen out of sight. "Are you here? I brought dinner."

Soul gulps air, trying to calm down. He can feel the sweat on the back of his neck cool. His eyes dart around the small living room, taking note of the blinds and carpet and clear light sources. There is no demon in sight. His body is too weary to relax. He forces it to anyway with more gulps of air.

"Soul?" The voice repeats. There is the muffled sound of plastic and cabinets opening to only close seconds later.

"Yeah," Soul replies with a nonchalance he is nowhere close to feeling. "In here." He shifts in the recliner, his legs and shoulders still stiff. He tries to wiggle his body to hide away the stiffness.

"You do realize that I don't know where 'here' is, right?" The other replies, but in less than a minute, Maka enters the living room. She plops down on the couch cushion closest to Soul and begins the process of removing her combat boots. "You could be in your room, the bathroom, the closet…"

"Why would I be in the closet?"

Maka shrugs. "Because you're not ready to come out yet?"

"Really Maka? A gay joke?" He huffs and rolls his eyes.

Maka sends Soul a look, her eyes scrunched down and lips down turned just a bit. "I would never joke about something like that. If you want to have the bromance of a life-time with Black*Star, I won't judge." She pauses to look upward a moment, finger tapping her chin in thought. "Well, I would, but not aloud or to either of your faces," she amends.

"For your information," Soul starts, "a bromance, by definition, is not like a regular romance. It's between two bros, who are the best of friends. The bros are not gay for each other; they just support each other on a level beyond friendship."

"Doesn't mean that they aren't gay at all. Or that it can't turn into a romance. And the way you and Black*Star where hugging each other and weeping on campus the other day…"

Soul shifts forward in his chair. "Okay, you clearly do not understand how bros operate."

She shoots him the most unimpressed look he's ever seen in his life. "Right. That's the issue here." She then stands with her boots in her hands and walks back towards the apartment door.

"Also," Soul adds, because he feels like he's losing this argument. "There's no point in removing your shoes if you've walked in the main rooms of the apartment. The dirt's already in my carpet, Pigtails."

"Put a chair by the door and I won't have to do it in the living room," Maka calls back.

"Stop wearing complex shoes and you won't need to sit down," Soul insists.

Maka's laugh makes its way back to Soul, but he can tell she's in the kitchen again. "Those things are steel toed and steel heeled. They kick ass, and you know it. My boots are a part of the package, Soul. If you want to hang out with me, the boots come with."

There are worst combo packages in the world, Soul thinks. He has no real qualms with the status quo of Maka's ritual shoe removal. The fact she takes the time to remove them and put them back on properly each time is kind of endearing. Soul's never taken care of any of his shoes like that. He'd chalk it up to the stereotype of girls and shoes, but since when has Maka fit a stereotype? No, she's right, those boots kick ass. Combine that with her favorite plaid pleated skirt, and her legs just seem to go on for days.

But that's beside the point.

Maka comes back to the living room with two plates in her hands. She sets one on the coffee table, just within Soul's reach. The other she keeps with her as she sits back on the couch again, this time tucking her sock-covered feet under her.

"Cheese-burger deluxe," Maka informs him with a nod.

Soul grins at the food. "Thanks."

They munch in silence for a few minutes. Soul tries not to think about anything he was doing before this moment where the grease is sticking between his fingers. He attempts to think about the cheese and meat and how Maka remembered his distaste for pickles. She always remembers. He reaches out for fries, stuffing the crispy potato straws three at a time into his mouth. He just focuses on his meal. That's all he needs to focus on.

He's focusing so hard, he's surprised to notice Maka is staring at him. Her own meal is a pile of chicken nuggets and fries with ketchup drizzled all over them like ranch dressing on a fatty salad. He's not sure how much she's eaten so far, but she seems more interested in looking at him than eating right now. Soul responds to the focus of those vibrant emerald eyes by squirming in his worn recliner. He stuffs another fry in his mouth before frowning. He thinks to call out her stare, but is scared of what she might be noticing.

Instead, Soul opts out, like the coward he is. "No drink?"

Maka watches him a little more, her head now tilted in consideration. "They're in the kitchen," she admits after a heavy beat of silence.

Soul hums in confirmation, stands, and brushes the grease and salt off his hands and onto his baggy sweats. "I'll get 'em then," he mumbles before waddling his way to the small kitchen in his apartment. On the tiny counter space, he spots two paper cups with plastic lids. One is a little bigger than the other, and seems to be filled with a dark liquid. The other has a lighter, golden liquid inside of the tall container. Soul picks both up, eyes searching the close area. "Where are the straws?"

"Huh?" Maka's voice is muffled from the wall between them.

"Straws?" Soul tries again, louder.

There is a pause. "Oh, um." Another pause. "I think I may have left them in the bag. Which is in the trash."

Soul glances at his trash bag. The trash is getting high, but still manageable three more days until Monday trash pick-up. "Do you care?"

"Soul," Maka's voice sounds from the living room. There is an edge in it, no matter how muffled. "If you dare bring me a straw from the trash I'll—"

"Lidless it is!"

Soul makes his way back to the living room. He sets both drinks down on the coffee table, then pops the plastic lids off. He picks up the larger one and gulps down a mouth full of syrup and fizz. It's still cold. The amount of ice is light too, just the way he likes his soda. Those fast food chains always put in way too much ice; the ratio of ice to soda makes Soul feel like he's being ripped off.

Soul sits back down, replacing his cup to grab up the other half of his burger still left on the plate. He takes a big bite that stuffs his cheeks. It's kind of hard to chew. He struggles the first few munches, but is able to keep going easier after that.

"Gross," Maka states. He looks at her to see her nose scrunched up. It's surprisingly cute, or unsurprisingly, as it's not the first time he's thought something like that.

Soul raises a brow, mouth still too full to reply with a verbal question.

She shakes her head before reaching for her cup. Maka swallows a few sips of her own drink, eyes watching him. Soul keeps his eyebrow raised and waits. She stops to state. "You are gross."

Soul forces the wad of chewed food down his throat. It's harder than he will admit. Once he has though, he responds with a grunt of "no I'm not."

"You so are."

He shoves a few fries in his mouth. "I'm cool," he states, this time not caring if he has some food in his mouth. His honor is much more important, at the moment.

She snorts.

"I am," Soul insists after swallowing. He tries to sound at least a little upset, but it's hard when Maka is smiling at him like that. "Anyway, how was class?"

She munches on a fry with ketchup a moment. She seems to be staring at a wall, but the gloss over those emerald eyes say otherwise. "Fine."

Then Soul remembers. "You had lab today."

Maka's focus returns to her ketchup salad of fried food. "Yep."

Soul wants to laugh and wince at the same time. "Well, it's not like you didn't know what you were getting into when you signed up for the class. You spent the whole summer under his advisement."

Maka groans, her head falling back to rest on the worn couch back cushion. Soul averts his eyes from her neck, stuffing his face with fries. He chews slowly. Maka doesn't move from her spot. Instead, she groans again, louder and with a whine in the tone.

"That bad?"

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. Her head doesn't move an inch from its defeated position. "It's only the third lab and he's already made over half the class drop. The third one, Soul," she gasps, arms flying up to the ceiling, only to fall limply back to the couch. "We only have lab once a week. The class and lab are a prerequisite, so a lot of people signed up, but…" She pauses to sit upright and take another sip of her drink. "Everyone who is left keep complaining that all the other labs are already full."

"What are you going to do?"

Maka shrugs, and there is a turn to the right corner of her lip. Her eyes focus back on him. "It's not a problem for me. The man is my godfather. I grew up used to it. I'm practically immune to his crazy." She munches on a fry. "Ah, well, mostly. The lab setting is a bit new."

Soul snorts into his own meal, but takes another bite of his greasy burger.

Maka's nose does that cute wrinkle-up thing again. "Gross," she reconfirms, but keeps going. "Anyway, it's more annoying than difficult at this point. All my classmates just keep whining and complaining about Stein behind his back. It's actually starting to piss me off. I know that they have no choice at this point, but seriously, they need to just—" She breaks off to groan again.

This time, Soul does laugh. "Not everyone has the advantage of years of immunity built up."

"Is that what we're calling this? An advantage?" She pops a ketchup stained chicken nugget in her mouth and chews quickly. "Well, either way, I'm starting to understand why Black*Star griped so much about faulty lab regulations. Stein doesn't follow any of them."

"Yeah, kinda sucks that he teaches the intro chemistry courses. I always thought they gave that to the assistant professors or something."

"They do," Maka assures. "Those classes are beneath most professors. Which is why they made Stein do it. It's supposed to be a punishment for his less-than-stomaching practices." She huffs a laugh, more air than noise. "Not that he's learning from this. If anything, he seems to be taking it as a can't-do-any-worse scenario."

Soul gives a laugh of his own. It's weak, but real enough. "Sounds like Professor Stein."

Maka shakes her head, but doesn't continue. That small tilt is back in the right corner of her lips. He doesn't know what else to add, so Soul just finishes his dinner. From the corner of his eye, he can see Maka do the same.

They wrap up a few minutes later, and both stand to take the trash to the kitchen. Maka throws her stuff away last. Once she has, she starts digging in the cabinets under Soul's sink. Soul watches from a spot just to the left of her. It's safer than standing behind her while she's in that skirt.

"What are you doing?" He tries. He doesn't mean to sound so tired or annoyed, because he isn't. Well, he isn't annoyed, at least. It feels like he's always tired. Soul can't remember the last time he got a decent few hours of sleep.

"Trash bag," Maka replies, standing up again with one in her hand. "The trash needs to be changed."

She starts to head towards his trashcan, but Soul moves to interfere. "You're kidding; stop it." She side-steps and he follows that move. "Seriously, Maka, don't. You don't live here; you shouldn't do my chores."

She huffs and frowns at Soul. "It's full, and you're going to wait until Monday to do anything."

Soul doesn't bother with denying it. "Just let me do it. You go pick out the movie."

Maka rolls her eyes. "Are you going to do it now?"

"Maybe," Soul replies. He snatches the flat trash bag from her hands. She doesn't resist, and he can't help feeling a little pleased with that fact. "Either way, you won't."

Maka huffs once, but grins at him anyway. "Fine. Fine." She turns to head back to the living room. Before she's out of sight though, she turns to point at him with a finger. "Change it, or else."

Soul rolls his eyes this time, "What are you, my mom?"

"As if I could stand the responsibility," she denies. Maka hands fall to her hips. "No, I'm just your overly kind, thoughtful, and considerate best friend."

"I thought Black*Star was my best friend."

"He thinks he's my best friend too," Maka replies. "And he can keep thinking that for all I care. His ignorance is my bliss."

"When he finds out the truth, he's going to kill us."

"And you're going to throw me into the line of fire," Maka dolls back, like they've said it a million times before. And they probably have since the start of June.

But, Soul likes hearing her say it; he likes knowing she considers him her best friend over everyone else. Maybe it would be painful, considering it's been months since he realized he likes Maka more than he should, but he can't find it in him to care. He's special to Maka, who cares how much so? He's terribly pleased with the small victories: like, Maka hanging out in his apartment for movie night, for example.

"I've made my pick," Maka's voice sings from the living room. He doesn't know why she's rubbing it in. Nine times out of ten, it's always her pick. The deal they made from the beginning means nothing at this point. While they still take turns on whose choice it is for food, Maka usually gets final call on movies. She actually has pretty good taste in movies; must be that, because she's such a bookworm, Maka knows a good plot when she sees it.

Either way, Soul would never complain. He learns he lessons after the second Maka-Chop, thank you.

He comes back to the living room to find Maka laying across the couch and snuggling with his only afghan. He slips back into his own recliner, shooting the blue and grey burrito a dirty look. He makes a show of being cold and uncomfortable by curling and shifting in his seat, but Maka pays no heed. Instead, she starts up the movie with his game station controller.

Soul gives up on whatever it is he was trying to do. "You're going to spend the night then?"

Maka pulls her arm back into the warmth of her cocoon and hums. "Maybe; I haven't decided."

He's not convinced. "You always fall asleep when you roll yourself up like that."

"I won't," Maka insists, her vibrant emerald eyes now trained on Soul. "This is a good one."

"Maka." Soul makes a big show of rolling his eyes. "You always fall asleep on my couch. It's happened so much I stopped feeling guilty for not giving you the bed." Which is kind of true but also not. It's happened four times the last two months, really. However, he likes how flustered she gets when she wakes up and realizes she didn't make it past the exposition of the movie. The first time it happened, she got so red he thought she would burn a hole through his couch.

The burrito on his couch squirms and wiggles. Maka hums and scoffs back at him, choosing to focus on the movie. Soul can feel a smile on his lips. He turns his head to watch the opening scenes, but his eyes stray back to Maka several times throughout the movie.

About halfway through the movie, his eyes catch something different from Maka. It's just on the edge of his eye sight, he sees the colors red and black. His body tenses, head freezing to still face the front. He wants to look, to see if it really is what his eyes think it is, but he can't move.

Just out of the corner of his eye, Soul can see a creature staring at him by his record player.

Terror grips him. Then something else grips his hand.

Soul manages to tear his focus away from whatever is behind him to look at his right hand. Covering it is a warm, flesh-colored hand. It's small and dainty, despite the fact it's beaten him more times than Soul can remember. It covers his own, and instead of nails digging into his flesh, the appendage grips his own tight and comfortable. It's secure.

Soul's eyes follow the hand up its attached arm and spots the top of Maka's fluffy hair. She's still staring at the television, though. It's a little awkward how her arm sticks out over the arm rest, but her body is still laying down. It can't be comfortable. Her eyes don't stray from the screen, but her hand squeezes his own. She doesn't let go afterwards, so Soul gulps in the air he didn't know he had forgotten to breath. He squeezes her hand back, and she still doesn't let go. Instead she squeezes back one more time— a little longer than before— and keeps watching with him hand in hand.

Soul focuses on that warmth. He takes a deep breath, and doesn't dare look back.

{O.o}

Says will post mid to late July.*

Posts the very last day of July.*

Nailing it.

I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of part two. It's twice as long as any previous chapters, so please accept this as my appology for the delay (and for only posting one chapter when I said I would post two).

Let's continue this journey together! Please look forward to more.

Thank you for reading,

SunnyD545