or: i've got a touch aversion and a stray cat that says you should shut your mouth

definitely check out nsart and sojustifiable on tumblr for their art! they've both done such great things this resbang and spoiled me and i only hope that this fic doesn't disappoint!

as always, the biggest thanks to my betas - sandmancircus, skaventuretime, sillytwinstars and peregr1ne - for lending me their eyeballs and just making this more readable in general.

The first thing she's immediately aware of is her mother's ring.

The diamond presses into Maka's cheek, and through the spray of daylight, she squints through the sleepies in her eyes. It must be about six in the morning, she thinks, caught somewhere in sleep limbo, bones shifting into place as she shoves herself up to sit. It's not the best sleep she's gotten - it's not even the best sleep she's gotten this week, all things considered - but the sun is simply too high in the sky for her to even consider rolling over and going back to sleep.

School is going to start soon, after all. And Maka Albarn is nothing if not her mother's daughter - perfectly punctual, a model student, uproariously determined - and no amount of bad sleep will keep her from getting to class on time. Despite the crick in her neck, despite the seductive lull of rest that licks at the coattails of her conscious, she rubs her eyes and squints.

Besides, sleeping in a tent in the daytime isn't exactly easy. Polyester can't dull the sun the same way home can. No, there's no hiding from it, no matter how hard she tries.

.

Tuesdays are always the worst.

Mondays are terrible, of course; the beginning of the school week is always bound to be difficult, but Tuesday is really where the exhaustion begins to hit. There's still so much time left until Friday, and Maka always works Saturdays, and - it's just a long time until Sunday, she thinks groggily, dragging a comb through her hair. One of the chipped teeth of the comb catches a knot and she cringes, grasping at the roots of her hair, tugging gently, gently, until she's free.

It's Tuesday, and tying up her hair while walking isn't as easy as she'd thought it might be. Twintails aren't even really a precise hairstyle; two elastics, no bobby pins, no fuss. It keeps her hair out of her way and keeps men at bay, too. There's something about two pigtails, high atop her head, that seem to turn boys her age off. Something infantilizing about a seventeen year old girl donning such a childish style - but it works for her, anyway, and Mama always used to style her hair this way, so Maka can't see the harm in it. It works. No-nonsense.

And on the off chance a boy does like her hairstyle, well, then it's easier for her to pick off the creeps. Sickos, she barely looks fourteen.

Maybe she should've brought a mirror with her. Her hair could be crooked, for all she knows. One could be looser than the other. She could have a cowlick.

Tuesdays, she thinks sleepily.

"... Miss?"

Surprised, Maka blinks her way back into this dimension. Oh, well. She's a space cadet, apparently. Tuesday has her all out of sorts and she can't even watch where she's going, doesn't register that she might not be alone on this walk to school. That is a foot under hers, isn't it? And that's a boy, staring at her in surprise, brows raised, lips pressed together tightly.

Pretty lips. Pale lips.

Ah. Ah!

"Iiii-! Oh, my god!" She nearly trips over herself trying to get away from him; she knows those lips! Well, no, she doesn't know those lips, not intimately - she doesn't think she really has any right to say she knows any lips, not when she's never been kissed, um - but she'd have to be deaf not to hear the way the girls in her class swoon and sigh over those lips.

Sure enough, Kurtis Ignatius Demitri (or Kid, as he prefers) stares back at her, pretty lips parted, now. It's almost unnerving, looking at him; he's got the type of face that belongs on dolls, she thinks. Perfect, unblemished skin; high cheekbones; long, dark lashes. He's one of those disturbingly beautiful people and Maka sort of feels mousy, standing there with haphazard pigtails, probably some leftover drool dried on her cheek. Her pleated skirt is wrinkled and lopsided, she has one knee high sock slipping precariously low, and his damn collar is perfectly pressed.

"I'm so sorry," she blurts, stumbling back. God, she must be tired; she's sitting here gawking at him instead of groveling, ugh. Maka isn't stupid enough to live alone in a tent and not have the means to defend herself should forest perverts or bears dare cross her - she wears heavy steel-toed boots, and Kid's toes might as well be dust now. "Are you okay?"

He blinks, peculiarly unconcerned with her. Or. Unconcerned with her heavy, clumsy feet, apparently - he's staring at her with intense concentration, and Maka feels a little like she's under a microscope. She scrubs at her cheek, just in case there actually is drool still there.

"Um?"

He squints. Maka hopes for a hot minute that he needs glasses or something, just so she won't feel as frumpy compared to him and his sparkling perfection. What sixteen year old has such splendid eyebrows?

"... Your hair."

Her hair. Self consciously, Maka grabs at her pigtails and tugs like they're her handlebars and she's a clumsy child, just now learning to ride a bike. "I didn't really have time to do my hair this morning, I know-"

"May I?"

"Um," she says again, but he's already moving closer, almost robotically. Maka nods, and then he's got his hands in her hair, tugging, adjusting, shifting. Belatedly, she realizes he's evening her out.

What an odd thing to prioritize. She just crushed his toes beneath her boot. Probably scuffed those expensive-looking loafers of his. Is it possible to bruise leather? She's probably bruised his leather and he's more interested in her two-minute mirrorless hairstyle.

Definitely odd.

Well, he's always been a bit off-kilter, she thinks, staring at the center of his forehead. He's sort of got a reputation about him. He's a bit like social royalty around school, despite the fact that Maka's not sure she's ever really seen him talk to anyone. He just sits there, front row of the class, shoulders looking slender and pristine beneath the muted gray of his shirt. Like some sort of king or something. He certainly has the posture to be king, that's for sure; Maka's stare slips down the line of his nose to his neck, then to those aforementioned shoulders.

It must be exhausting, standing so straight all of the time. Sitting so tall, even. He's not even a particularly tall guy, she notes; he's not much taller than she is, and she stands at a mere 5'2''.

"Hm," he says, and she jumps again, startled and guilty. Who is she, and why is her head in the clouds? Damn Tuesdays. "Better. You are presentable now."

Maka doesn't know whether to thank him or apologize again. Well, she's staring at their feet now, so it's as good a time as any. "Sorry."

Kid takes a step back and clears his throat. "Pardon?"

"For stepping on your feet?" And possibly crushing his toes? Ruining his shoes? Being an uncharacteristic space cadet? "I wasn't paying attention, and my boots are kind of, um, heavy duty, so-"

"Yes, well," he nods, slowly, and Maka realizes somewhere between inspecting his loafers for damage and segueing into begging for forgiveness she's gone back to looking him in the eye. "It is early, and I suppose most people aren't at their most alert at six thirty AM, so."

So. Maka burns and clenches her bookbag. "I usually am."

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Polite and practiced. "Everyone has an off morning."

She doesn't. There is too much riding on her shoulders for her to afford an off morning, thank you very much. Maka takes a deep breath and says, "Still. Sorry. And thank you for fixing my hair?"

"It was my pleasure."

Class royalty takes pleasure in fixing her hair. Maka absolutely does not mention that she'd rinsed her hair in streamwater a night ago with a bar of dollar-store soap and instead decides to preserve whatever is left of her threadbare dignity. If the only bone he has to pick with her hair is its lopsided nature, well, she shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was his pleasure, and as weird as it is, Maka can't find anything disingenuous in the way he smiles, even if it's a bit stiffly. A good girl would say thank you again.

And she is a good girl, after all. Her mother's daughter. Maka lives to please. "Thank you."

Kid nods and, like the true gentleman he is, gestures before them with a flourish of his hand. "Shall we?" he asks, and oh, it sort of does make sense that they'd just walk to school together now, huh. They are both headed to the same place. It would be weird if she didn't fall into step with him.

"Oh!" Maka gasps. "Yes! Yes, sorry. Sure. Thank you again. You're positive I didn't hurt you?"

He nods his head. "Positive. Please don't think anything of it."

"I mean, because I'm kind of wearing heavy-duty boots-"

"-Yes, I am aware-"

"-And they hurt! They're supposed to hurt, anyway. I kind of bought them with the intention of them being intimidating and painful."

He does crack a smile at that, and it has at least twenty percent more life than the last poised quirk of his lips had. "Self defense?"

Well, he's not at the top of their class for nothing, she supposes. He can pick up on her context clues like a true bookworm, and Maka can respect that. "A girl can never be too sure," she says, jogging a bit to match his pace. He might be more on the petite side, but he's certainly quick with his strides, and Maka should get her head out of the clouds before she ends up trampling all over his toes again and actually hurting him this time. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Absolutely," he says, nodding. Kid doesn't once look at her, but more-so keeps his eyes on the path in front of him. Oddly enough, in the sunlight he really does sort of glow.

Though she's not sure if it's because of his rumored princely aura, or if his skin has never truly seen the light of day and he's the approximate shade of mayonnaise. Really, anyone that pale is blinding in the light. Either he slathers himself in the highest possible SPF, or he spends way too much money on Hot Topic makeup. Since she can't make out the point on his chin where the goth-white foundation ends and his actual skin tone begins, all signs point to vitamin-d deficiency.

So many girls in her class would trip over themselves for a chance to walk to school with him, and all Maka can think about is whether or not he buys aloe vera in bulk. She's not really sure which is funnier; that legions of fangirls are gaga over this pasty pretty boy, or that she herself has spent so much time analyzing it.

Maybe she's pathetic, too. And, admittedly, also kind of pasty.

Who is she kidding? They're both mayonnaise.

.

The walk to school is unusually eventful. Normally, Maka power walks to class by herself, cashes in on daily free breakfast, and spends her twenty minutes chewing on a halfway-stale bagel while rereading Harry Potter's yearly near-death experience before Liz and Patty finally make their way in. This morning, though, she has the strange pleasure of walking to class with Kid, which is… nice? She thinks it's nice?

It's certainly not unpleasant. Maybe a bit awkward sometimes, because he is sort of a stranger, and he's not the best at holding a conversation always, but he's nice enough. Nicer than she'd expected, really; he might be something like royalty around the school, but he's got a reputation of being sort of an ice prince. He talks to no one, minds his own business, takes his sweet time taking his notes and turns down boys and/or girls who confess to him. Rinse and repeat. It's a daily cycle, it seems, and Maka only notices such odd behavior because she has the nosiest friends in the world.

Liz drops down into the seat beside her and blankets her head in her arms. "Ugh."

Even if it had taken an extra fifteen minutes to get to class, Maka still sits smugly beside her. They are none the wiser to her unusual morning stroll with the local pretty boy. "Late night?" Maka asks, chewing on her bagel.

"Puh." Liz cracks her neck and rests her cheek against her forearm instead, so that she can stare at Maka. "Too much to do, too much to see."

Giggling, Patty plops down beside Maka, too. "Sissy was up too late watching Netflix. Don't let her fool you!"

"Patty!"

"She's not that cool," Patty insists, waving a hand. She leans in, then, short blonde hair brushing against her chin. It's wild today, as it is everyday, and she must not've run a comb through it this morning before dragging her big sister out of bed. "Good morning, Maka!"

It's not polite to talk with her mouth full, and she really is still trying to make time to shovel in her breakfast before first period starts, so she smiles as brightly as she can for 7 AM and chomps away. It's enough for the youngest Thompson sister, and she bumps shoulders with her before leaning over to dig through her backpack for her pencil case.

"Work was exhausting, okay," Liz says, pouting. "When I got back I didn't feel like going out anymore, so I just had a night-in. I'm still cool."

Maka swallows. "Okay."

"You are judging me. I can see it in your eyes."

She is doing no such thing. Maka spent her night post-work sleeping in a tent in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. She is in no place to judge, actually, and wisely keeps her nose out of it. "I am literally not even looking at you, Liz," she says, very pointedly flipping a page in her book. "Harry has my attention."

"Nerd," she scoffs.

"He's good to me. Respectable. A strong sense of justice."

"Yeah." Liz rolls her eyes. "What a catch. Harry Potter is the type of guy you bring home to your parents, sure, Maka-"

There's a pinch, hot and tight in her chest, and Maka swallows again, though it's zero parts breakfast and all parts heat. It sinks down, then, into her gut, where it doesn't explode so much as it dissolves, thick and murky. Her thumb finds the band of her mother's ring, and Maka spins it, then, absently. It's been months, she thinks, the cool metal of the ring smooth beneath the pad of her thumb. Months, and this shouldn't still sting - she is stronger than this, tougher. Someone Mama can be proud of.

So she does not cry about it. Does not make a scene or wipe her eyes or anything like that; what good will tears serve her, anyway? It'll only make Liz feel guilty, will only make Patty fret and smother her with hugs and cheek smooches, and Maka- Maka doesn't need that, not now. What kind of friend would she be, if she let Liz beat herself up over such a tiny fluke? It's whatever. Maka is practically an adult. Seventeen going on responsible.

She shakes her head and pinches the tip of the page between her fingers. Smooth beneath her fingers. Hm. "I think so," she says, smoothly. Beside her, Liz seems to reinflate, though her expression evolves from regret to suspicion.

Squinting, she says, "... He's a nerd."

"No." Maka laughs. "That's Hermione, remember? She's the bookworm. Harry just has glasses and you are stereotyping him."

"I lived through shitty 2000's teen movies, Maka. I was twelve once." Liz runs her fingers through her long, long hair and rolls her eyes, seemingly placated with the change of topic. Good; Maka breathes a little easier, slinks back in her chair a bit more comfortably as Liz says, very assured, "Nerds wear glasses."

Untrue. Maka probably qualifies as a nerd and she doesn't wear glasses. Perfect 20/20 vision, thank you very much. "I think you are forcing a label on him that he might not identify with."

"I think you're too invested in Harry's nerdy ways." False. "Those glasses of his probably get your own nerdy self all hot and bothered. Keeps you warm at night." She literally could not be more wrong. "Fess up, Albarn. We all know the truth."

There's no truth to fess up. Her heart is still lodged in her throat, and it's difficult to breathe, with the way it's pounding, still, and- and she's being accused of what, exactly? Harry Potter's glasses getting her all riled up? It's laughable, and Liz might be the closest thing she's had to a best friend, but sometimes it still blindsides Maka how little she seems to understand.

So Maka shakes her head. "You need more sleep."

Patty giggles and nudges Maka's shoulder. "Bingo!"

"No, I-"

"Need your beauty sleep?"

"Patty!"

It's easy to fall back into routine. It's safe, to carefully tuck her bookmark into place and slip Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets back into her bag. Safe, in such a way that it's easy to ignore the way her heart slowly slips back down, locks itself into place in her chest, thumping faithfully - easy to ignore the tight pinch in her stomach that even words and literature can't seem to will away. But it's daylight, now, well into the morning and much too late for her to bask in that particular brand of frustration. School's about to start and if there's one thing she can truly lose herself in, it's learning.

Mama'd instilled a thirst for knowledge in her, after all. Mama always knew best. A smart girl is a practical girl, and practicality seems to be the only thing to loosen that claw-like grip on her heart.

She's fine. She's fine. Breathe in, breathe out. There. Better. A practical girl is a strong girl.

.

"Don't look now, but I think Kid wants your number."

Maka promptly chokes on her lunchroom pizza. "Excuse me?"

Never one for subtlety, Liz sits taller to stare pointedly over Maka's head. She's not even a little bit secretive about it, openly staring right at the poor guy. When Maka at least tries to be a bit more tactful with her peeking, Kid adjusts his shirt collar and goes back to broodily twirling his spaghetti around his fork.

"... He's so brave, eating tomato sauce while wearing a white shirt."

"Maka!"

"What? He is!"

She wouldn't dare try such a feat; not without a real washing machine, anyway. All of Maka's clothes are cleaned a la river water and elbow grease (and a little powdered detergent, sure), and- well, she's brave but not suicidal when it comes to her collared shirts. It's better be to a little wrinkled, she thinks, than splotched with red. Makes her look a little bit less like a homicidal maniac and more like a busy high school student.

Liz flicks her forehead. Very lovingly, of course. "Focus. You're being checked out and you are still more interested in his bleaching methods."

Maka blushes at the thought. "He is not checking me out."

"He keeps staring at you. It's very Edward Cullen," Liz says, then leans back to continue chomping on her chicken burger. "It's like he has his own wind machine to dramatically blow his hair in the breeze."

Maka spares a glance behind her. "... Well, he's sitting by the only boxed fan in the school, so."

Liz snorts. "It's strategic." Munch, munch. From her side, Patty sneakily steals a few of her sister's cold fries. "He wants to look mysterious and dark. Such a wannabe bad boy. He's trying to be sexy."

If he is, the effect is lost on her. Maka's not sure she's ever known what sexy is - but she's pretty sure it's not some introverted boy, sitting by himself in the lunchroom, boxed fan blowing his hair into his face as he attempts to eat some pasta without staining his nice shirt. And if it is, well, Maka's pretty sure she'll never understand sex appeal. It's more sad, than anything else.

Lonely. Very lonely. And it makes her heart ache.

"... Maybe he's just overheated," she says sensibly. "He's still in that sweater vest? And it's like, September, it's not even well into fall yet-"

Laughing, Liz shakes her head. "I'm not sure I've ever seen teen royalty himself sweat. I'm not sure he's capable. Look!" she says, pointing a pinky finger in his direction, never once releasing her burger.

It feels rude to look again, but Liz keeps wiggling her finger, and she just won't stop until Maka finally bites the bullet and does it. So, against her better judgement, she checks over her shoulder. Sure enough, he's peeking her way, too, but it's more curious than anything else. He doesn't seem flustered, and doesn't seem overheated - he's not drenched in sweat, anyway, and his hair doesn't look greasy - but Maka's not sure she's ever seen him truly out of sorts. He doesn't look stuffy, or sticky, or like he's suffering for wearing a collared shirt and sweater vest in 65 degree weather… he's sort of, like, glistening?

Maka squints. "He's sweating, for sure."

"He's sparkling. It's a fresh layer of sparkle."

Patty cackles and steals Maka's discarded pepperoni. "Sissy and her conspiracy theories. You watch too much late night TV!"

Kid's an odd guy, but he's probably not an extraterrestrial. Maka chances a wave and he blinks, in what she thinks must be surprise. Then he waves back too, tiny and shy before looking deeply into his plate of spaghetti again. "He's definitely overheating. He's one of the lucky ones who doesn't sweat like a pig, but he's definitely perspiring."

"That's a funny word. I like that word."

"What, perspire?"

Patty smothers a smile. "No. Pig. Duh."

Liz finally drops her chicken burger and plants her hands on the table, determined. "Is nobody listening to me? He is staring at you like, constantly. He wants something. And I'm pretty sure it's your blood, Albarn."

Unlikely. She's A-Positive. Super common, generic blood. The stale potato chips of the vampire world, probably. Which, wait. "You think he's a vampire?"

Patty really wasn't kidding. Liz and her conspiracy theories, man. She tosses her hair over her shoulder very dramatically and says, seriously, "He is absolutely the spitting image of those 2000's young adult romance novel covers. Look at him! He is the hot teen vampire of pre-teen wet dreams. And he wants you, Maka. I am not kidding. Why else would he keep looking your way? The fan is blowing in your direction."

"... Wouldn't the fan need to be blowing his way for that to make sense?" To like, what, blow her scent his way? Make him uncomfortable with her scrumptious blood-smell? Maka tries not to bark out laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. "I don't think it works that way, Liz."

"He wants your neck. Wants to sink in with his fangs." She stands up, then, very suddenly. "I bet he has fangs. I'm going to investigate."

She says that, but her knees wobble as she kicks away from the lunch table, and Maka knows it's not because of her heeled boots. Liz Thompson came out of the womb in kickass heels, and those boots were made for walking, dammit. "I really- you don't have to do that," Maka insists, reaching for her wrist. Liz trembles a bit in her grasp, barely noticeably. "Come on, he's not a vampire."

"I'm the intimidating one here, okay. I have a duty to this family."

It softens Maka, just a bit. Family. "Okay, but I'm the one who knows taekwondo."

Liz pries her fingers off of her wrist and then pats her head, very maternally. She's seen her do the same to Patty a thousand times, but it's weird, being on the receiving end for once. "Do you think he knows that? I have height over him. You are 90 pounds soaking wet."

"He's 90 pounds soaking wet, too!" Her logic is so flawed. And okay, the dude's a little off kilter, and yeah, he's staring and it's odd, but Maka just spent the morning walking to school with him. He had plenty of opportunities to suck her dry like some sort of capri-sun pouch and he hadn't. Probably definitely not a teen vampire intent on turning her into his undead bride. "You're afraid of supernatural creatures anyway."

She gasps, affronted. "I am not!"

Her legs are literally shaking in her boots. "You are terrified. Remember when Patty and I wanted to go ghost hunting and you made us go home? We didn't even make it in the door!"

Liz's eyes narrow and she lightly bonks Maka on the head. "Fucking with ouija boards is not cool, and you know it."

Her point still stands. Liz is absolutely spooked by creepy crawlies and things that go bump in the night, and vampires definitely fall into the latter category. And while Maka is a little flattered that her friend would go through such turmoil just to protect her, it's also completely unnecessary. He's an odd guy, sure, but sparkle vampire is pushing it.

"He's nice," Maka says, then.

Liz stares suspiciously at her. It's like being under a microscope. "You've never spoken to him."

"You don't know that. Maybe I have."

It keeps her from barrelling over and interrogating him, at least, but now all attention is on her, and it's unnerving. Liz props a hand on her hip and shifts her weight, and at least three boys from the next table over turn their attention to Liz's fantastic ass. "When?"

Honesty is the best policy. And the truth is certainly less exciting than whatever tall tale Liz is concocting right now. Maka stands, leans up on her toes and shoots a glare over Liz's shoulder, just enough to discourage wandering freshman eyes, and then says, "This morning? We ran into each other on our way to school, so we walked together. It was nice, I guess. Less lonely than normal."

This is clearly revolutionary enough to even surprise Patty out of her lunch stealing. She drops Liz's fry in a pool of ketchup. "You walked together?"

"... Yes?"

"I don't think I've ever seen him outside of school," she says, thoughtfully rescuing the fry from the pit of tomato-y hell. "I thought he, like, crawled under his desk when the bell rang and then went to sleep. Like teachers do."

"Well, he was there! He helped fix my hair." She drops down from her toes and touches her pigtails; sure enough, they're still standing tall, high atop her head, and they feel even, but she can't exactly see her reflection in Liz's face. "He's just… shy, maybe? But he's very nice. I stomped all over his foot on accident and he didn't even get upset with me. And he definitely didn't try to suck me dry, thank you very much!"

Her stare is unreadable. Maka's unsure if it's denial that's written in that wrinkle between her brows, or dubiety, and doesn't quite care to investigate further. "Right."

It's weird, though. She's not checking over her shoulder, but still has a nagging suspicion that he's watching her again. Like some kind of bizarre sixth sense; Liz is right about one thing, and it's that there's something about him that isn't quite completely mundane. He might not glitter in the daylight and lust after her very generic bloodtype, but there's still something different about him. Not necessarily a bad different, or even a dangerous different - just… different. A way she can't quite put into words.

Maybe the under-the-microscope feeling wasn't from Liz after all. Maka drops back down to sit and crushes her juice box in her hand. It's like an itch she can't seem to scratch.

Weird.

.

She meets him again by the school's front steps.

He's sitting very primly on the bottom step, one leg crossed over another, hands propped on his knees. Liz gasps and points an accusatory finger his way, but the guy isn't gleaming in the sunlight so much as he's very, very pale and blinding in the light.

And she's not the only one who feels that way. From the top of the steps, a group of girls flutter and giggle eagerly, practically gawking at the poor guy. Though- okay, judging from the way they're whispering and squealing, they find his fair skinned, prim-and-proper demeanor dreamy or princely or… something like that. It's hard to make out what they're saying in between the giggling and cat calls.

Attraction is weird. Maka shakes her head and doesn't overthink it. There are some things in this life she is just not meant to understand, and alleged teenage hormones are one of them.

"He's waiting for you! And you barely know him. That's creepy," Liz hisses.

"Or gentlemanly," Maka says, stuffing her water bottle into her bag. "Either way, I'm headed to work after school, so it's not like I'll be walking home with him anyway." She does not mention that she can't let him walk her home, not if she wants to keep her, um, sleeping arrangement a secret, anyway. His niceness surely only goes so far. There will surely come a point where this seemingly well-mannered pretty boy will watch her crawl into her tent and lose his composure. She's willing to put money on it.

Liz grabs her shoulder. Her nails dig into her shirt. "What if he follows you there? Or. Oh my god. Waits for you there?"

"I think you think I am way hotter than I actually am. No boy would do that." And definitely not for her, lady practically-rocking-a-training-bra, she of the pathetic stature and skinny legs. "Relax. Taekwondo, remember? I could snap him in half."

Patty snorts and plops her baseball cap on her head. "Nah, Maka. Some dudes are into that. 'Member that guy you brought home last month, Lizzie? Said he wanted you to crush his skull-"

"IRRELEVANT." Wow, is Liz pink. Maka shares a smile with Patty. "Just… watch yourself around him, okay? He gives me the heebie jeebies. Something about that dude is weird."

He's like five foot five and reading Edgar Allen Poe poems while sitting cross-legged on the school steps, but okay, sure. His residual oddness does waft from him, and Maka almost gets where she's coming from, but can't seem to bring herself to be intimidated by a boy who wears golden contacts on a day-to-day basis. It's a little embarrassing. She's not really sure how she feels about that.

But she's going to be late if she doesn't get going, so there's really no time for deliberation on the subject. Watch herself around the potentially creepy pretty boy who lives somewhere near her makeshift campsite. Easier said than done.

"Sure, okay. See you guys later." Maka leans in and gives Liz a one-armed hug, and then does the same to her sister. Patty squeezes her extra tight and lifts her off of her feet for good measure. "Whoa-!"

She giggles and drops her. "Be safe! Text us when you get home so we know you got back alright."

"Okay, mom."

Liz's lips press together. Maka ignores it and swallows down her own discomfort. It's fine, she tells herself. Normalize it. It's fine.

.

Work is work. It's never exciting but it's not the worst, Maka supposes. Scooping ice cream isn't physically grueling work, really, but frozen cream is tougher to handle than most people realize, and Maka's arms feel sore and noodly as she locks up, wishes her boss goodnight, and then begins the trek home. If nothing else, the job pays well enough. Working for tips is sometimes degrading, and she can feel her pride withering every time she has to smile and nod at some rude soccer mom demanding she get more extra fudge for the same low, low price of nothing, but it definitely beats out the minimum wage she's actually being paid per-hour.

And she's ripped. Or. Um. Rapidly becoming more ripped as time goes on. She's on her way to having guns for arms and at least she'll have that going for her. Her scooping arm has gained significant muscle definition in comparison to her non-dominant, non-scooping arm.

So, at least if Kid does somehow miraculously end up being a vampire intent on using her like a bloodbag, Maka'll have a mean right hook to clobber him with. Self defense is important, like Mama always says.

Said. Erm. She always said.

Eleven PM is too late to be feeling sorry for herself. Maka hefts her school bag onto her back and drowsily walks home. She's never been much of a night owl, but if she wants to save up enough money to hopefully get an apartment for herself after graduation, she's going to need the extra cash, and that means subjecting herself to as many after-school shifts as she possibly can before June. Ideally, she'll be going to college by then, and will have gathered enough scholarships for it to be feasible for her to attend, but then there's also food to worry about, among other living expenses, and- well, a girl can never be too prepared. Who knows what could happen in a year's time.

She's never been a night owl, but this is a necessity now, and routine is routine, she supposes. It will only make her stronger in the long run, both fiscally and physically, apparently. Maka keeps herself mostly awake and alert by feeling up her own bicep, a bit giddy at the thought of having actual muscles. Liz isn't entirely made up of conspiracy theories - she's right, Maka isn't really that intimidating, but if she had guns, well. That's a different story.

Eventually, the sidewalk ends and the dirt path begins. It's creepier, walking this route, so Maka pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight. At least if any wild animals (or creepers) jump out at her, she'll see them coming and have half of a fighting chance. She probably wouldn't punch a bear in the nose, but another person wandering in the woods at nearly midnight? Maybe. She can't have people wandering around her campsite this late at night. It's just not safe.

Branches and pinecones crunch under her boots. Maka ducks under a branch, steps over a particularly mossy rock and then, well. There it is. Her home.

A tent, shoddily propped up in a clearing. There's just enough break of canopy for daylight to stream in, working as the best natural wakeup call she can finagle. The ground is level enough, she supposes, for a decent night sleep. She has a pillow in there and a blanket. The tent has a screen. It's not… it's not the worst set up.

It's certainly not the best set up, either, but it's hers, and that's enough. And it's better than being homeless, which, okay, maybe she kind of is? She doesn't own the land she's sleeping on. She literally just stumbled around until she found a flat surface to sleep and set up camp indefinitely, but it's something, okay. A place to sleep is a place to sleep. A place to keep her things and take off her shoes and relax.

Besides. She's brave. Things that go bump in the night don't scare her. Vampires aren't real. Ghosts are debatable. Bears are real and if a bear stumbles onto her campsite, she might die, but she will deal with that obstacle should it present itself. For the time being, she's fine.

She's too tired to worry about it anyway. Maka falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. Goodbye, Tuesday.