See You Later [ A L O N G _ T H E _ T R A C K S ]

By Stré

… to those who ever proved someone wrong, to the passengers falling asleep on a train, to the closet deviants lusting for release …

His bright white hair stands out in the crowd of black like a single pinprick of light in the night's dark sky, but when compared to Tokyo's youth, his head isn't all that outrageous, since dyeing seems like a rather common practice. Only a few are bold enough to flaunt bleached blonde or synthetic colours like BlackStar's blue, while others take the more natural approach of reds or auburns that are nevertheless very eye-catching on an Asian face. Most prefer the various shades of brown, from pale chestnut to dark oak, even reaching ebony, but not quite jet-black like he had imagined everyone would have. As he surveys the young Japanese crowd, Maka doesn't seem foreign at all with her ash blonde that borders a light brown.

He takes back one of the comments that he had made on the plane because it had been a terribly false and ignorant one: he assumed that she was Caucasian-American, but after spending a month in this country, he now realises just how Japanese she really is, or more specifically, just how well she blends into Tokyo.

Her chest size had been a great source of teasing material, since it was definitely under average on American standards, but now that he's accustomed to the female population of this city, he realises that she's quite normal in this domain as well. He can probably count with his thumbs the number of decent cleavage he has spotted so far, and culture shock nearly strikes when he remembers the bimbos back at home who poured out their breasts like a generous donation to the male cause. The girls here may not be well endowed, but they instead knew how to dress, covering their small bust with layers of cool fashion, and a lot managed to look sexy nonetheless.

But the sexiness factor was probably due to what they were proud to display: Tokyo girls had legs, and they weren't shy to show them. From schoolgirls hitching up the pleats of their uniform, to classy office ladies in tight pencil skirts, or girls in long socks, tall hooker-boots, paired with bootie-shorts and mini skirts galore; it was a nation that stood on the bare legs of women. And Maka was no different, always clad in her sinfully short skirts, exposing those slim gorgeous legs that never failed to trip him into lust.

She's staring at him with the intense green of her eyes, and he knows that it's a cliché thing to say, but he just wants to drown in them. Japanese girls may attempt to change their eye colour by wearing contact lenses, pasting fake eyelashes with caked-on makeup to transform them round and large, but their efforts could never compare to Maka's emeralds that effortlessly shined bright, reflecting her confidence and honest personality. She was pretty in her natural state, and he loved that about her.

They're heading to her university because she has class, and he wants to escort her there before venturing off to his own errands in the neighbouring district. He holds her hand with interlocking joints, and if he could have his way, he would never want to let go, ever. But Maka does a curious thing that pre-maturely cuts their contact: as soon as they board the train, she releases her grip, and positions her hands at a distance where he can't innocently snake his way back into hers. It's not even like she needed to do anything specific, like search in her bag or send a text message; her palms are just passively resting on her lap as they sit in silence on this uneventful ride.

When they finally reach their stop, the station where they needed to make a transfer, he is relieved to feel the soft skin of her digits as she resumes their unified grasp. However, it's again cut short when they enter their next train, and he gets a little peeved because she again has no legitimate reason to break the contact, with her hands now shoved in the pockets of her pale-yellow cardigan. But as soon as they arrive at their final destination, coming out of the car and melding into the crowd, she searches for his touch and laces her fingers into his once more.

Weird.

Is she phobic of holding hands on the train? Or maybe she was just afraid of public display of affection in an enclosed space, but their 'display' was so minor that he finds this hypothesis very hard to believe. Her behaviour was just bizarre and it could have been entirely unintentional like a nervous tic, so he doesn't confront her about it, even if it's heavily on his mind and he desperately wants to know the reason for her actions.

It's only when they reach her school that he receives the answer: he leans in for a chaste kiss on the lips to say goodbye, but she actually pushes him away.

"What the hell, Maka!" he indignantly exclaims, flustered by the rejection.

"Not in public," she says, looking left and right to check for any scandalised glares. "It's really rude and inappropriate."

"What? But it's just a dry peck. It's not like I'm asking for a hardcore makeout session!" He feels insulted by her words, and his irritation swells when she continues to stand her ground.

"It's not like in America, okay? A kiss is a kiss; it makes others feel awkward, so keep it where no one can see." Her tone is final, and it's not like the goodbye kiss would mean anything at this point.

The situation really hits a nerve, since it wasn't often that he wanted to openly show his affection. Throughout his entire life, Soul has always been reserved, never clingy or dependant on his partner's touch, and he had been so private with his feelings that he inevitably turned all of his ex-girlfriends into insecure psychos. But when this stubborn girl pushed away his chaste advances, and then accused him for being inappropriate, he just wanted to stop thinking altogether because the pain of rejection would only continue to haunt him the more he dwelled on her words.

Despite these internal qualms, his indifferent demeanour doesn't falter, and he gathers his last ounces of composure to ensure that his final word could bite back with decent strength.

"Maka, you're such a prude," he states condescendingly, while his eyes give her a pretentious once-over that screams out she-is-full-of-herself-and-he-doesn't-give-a-shit-because-it's-not-like-he-was-missing-out-on-anything-with-that-unattractive-body-of-hers. "Anyways, I'll see ya later. Have fun at school."

And he's off to his own business, leaving Maka between the fine line of rage and hurt. He had no idea that she really took that statement to heart, and that she would one day prove him terribly wrong.

The trains at rush hour are bursting at the seams, with conductors gently packing more passengers into the cars, like ushering cattle into a stable without an inch of space going to waste. They are first in line, so the waves of people drift their bodies forward until she's pressed against the back door, and he's extremely thankful since it rules out any potential gropers attacking from behind. But for added measure, he guards her by positioning himself face-to-face, with his forearms and clenched fists leaning against the wall, placed by each of her sides like forming bars to a cage that will protect her.

Silence usually reigns like a university library during final exam period, and even cellphones do not ring because it's prohibited to talk on them while riding the train, but today they have the misfortune of being grouped with irritatingly noisy high schoolers, behaving loud and obnoxious like the free-spirited youth that stereotypically defines this age group, regardless of their country of origin and social upbringing.

The boys are rowdy as they tease the girls with mild tickling and poking, generating savage responses of forceful shoves, punches and kicks, in which the boys fight back with more zeal. Their bustle manages to push Soul's body closer to Maka's, eliminating the already inexistent gap between their skin, and essentially forcing them to meld into one another as their personal space fuses into one.

He can feel her every curve, her small breast squished against his chest, her flat hard stomach, those strong thighs nervously fidgeting from left to right, as if that would somehow gain her more room to breathe. Her heart hammers into his own, and their pulse matches up to the same frantic tempo, which reassures him that he's not the only one feeling agitated or excited by their current position.

He can't stop his body from reacting, not when they're this close and when their tension has not been satiated because they haven't quite done it yet. After his failed attempt when they first hooked up, another opportunity never arose; she was always slumped with fatigue from school and work, never instigating any sensual mood, despite teasing the heck out of him when she walks around their small apartment in nothing but a flimsy towel.

However, in this very instance, her pounding heart tells him that she is equally curious and receptive towards his presence, with her hips unconsciously (or maybe consciously) grinding up against his. So when his blood decides to rush down, clogging and hardening his masculine region, she becomes overly conscious of this solid matter, and her deep flush beads into sweat that notably moistens the space between her thighs.

She sends him a devilish grin that he isn't quite sure how to interpret, and he wants to apologize for his natural reaction to her body, but he is too distracted by the subtle sways of her hips that make his mouth water. She then places her hands by her stomach, and his anticipation plummets as he assumes that she's trying to create some distance between their bodies, but his rational mind understands that there will be trouble if their actions escalate any further.

It's only when he hears a faint jingle that his eyes dart south, and he watches her fumble with his belt buckle, effectively letting it loose in record timing. Before his brain can catch up to the situation and possibly issue a complaint (not that he has any, but he's certainly shocked), his zipper is undone and his straining erection gains a bit of freedom.

It feels good to be out in the open, but it's literally in the open and he feels self-conscious by this very obvious display, in this very public setting. However, he quickly realises that the audience doesn't notice their performance; no one can really see them because the crowd is so dense that it's nearly impossible to observe what was going on below the waist. Moreover, everyone seemed to be in their own world, most with their backs turned, ears plugged with music, eyes glued to their cellphones or closed shut with their minds fast asleep. If anything, the teenagers attracted the most attention, with those girls now letting out high-pitched laughter that could divert everyone's focus from their suspicious movements.

Maka stands in front of him, hot and bothered, with his hard member shoved against her navel because he's taller than her, so they don't perfectly match at the hips. His arms act as a support to ward off the backs of the neighbouring strangers, so he's essentially unable to use his hands, which is pure torture because he really wants to fondle, grope and grab that firm ass to pull her even closer into him.

As if mocking his tied hands, her devious ones sneak another number: they slowly slide inside her miniskirt, and he thinks that she's touching herself as her face emits more heat, with eyes looking nothing but lustful and mischievous. She's definitely fiddling with something down there, and the suspense is killing him while he grows harder by the second.

She pulls out something very stringy, dainty and white. His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, as it clearly dawns onto him that she's holding her panties. She cracks another evil smile and releases a low-key giggle that doesn't rouse any suspicion.

The lace first gets dangled in his gobsmacked priceless face, then gets shoved in his back pocket; her hand that's now groping his ass also uses him as leverage to hoist herself a little upwards so that their groins can firmly connect. The contact is made. She lets the train ride its course.

The wheels of the vehicle rattle against the metal tracks, rushing at great speed, sending great vibrations as her core begins to soak his boxer where his hard problem desperately wants to release. It is torture how much he wants to scream, to touch her, to hear her moan, but they are silent, and no one notices their lewd behaviour. Each violent bump of the car rocks her into a frenzy; the ride isn't always smooth as it occasionally jerks, further pleasuring her sensitive area with pounding erratic strikes.

She wants more, so she nudges his boxers down and his shaft hits a rush of fresh air, only to be used as a tool to stimulate her folds. Realisation hits: she's officially the devil incarnate.

Her small hand grasps the 'toy' firmly, but she doesn't force it into her deeply. Instead, she only uses the tip to rub against her clit, and lets the natural vibrations of the rumbling train do all of the work. He can't say it enough: IT IS TORTURE. She's so hot, even in this miraculous silence, and he captures the small details of her extreme arousal—the gulp of saliva as she controls her breath, the sheen radiating from her flushed face, those half-lidded eyes, the wet moisture drenching the tip of his fuckin' hard member.

She's getting there, to the point of climax, and he's still awed by the fact that he's watching her like a film on mute, surrounded by an inattentive audience. He's also still shocked by this surreal turn of events. She denied holding his hand on the train, but it was somehow socially acceptable to hold his cock? The logic escapes him.

The train hits a particularly sharp bump and she finally reaches it: her hips buck one last time into him, her eyes close and presumably roll back in their sockets, and she releases a very quiet moan that's muffled by the loud cackles of the high school students. She sighs in satisfaction and looks into his hungry eyes.

He still has a problem, but she shoves it back into his pants, sealing it with a zip, and re-attaching his buckle into place. He groans from the ache, from the sheer torture of having his extra limb enclosed in such a tight space, but there really isn't anything he could do because the male release entailed obvious noises with a messy ending, and a crowded train was not the appropriate setting for an orgasm. Well, apparently Maka found it acceptable for her case, and he wonders if her horny impulse always overcomes her reason until he hears—

"Revenge," she whispers, "for calling me prude." She smiles as his face contorts in disbelief. "And don't judge a book by its cover," she adds playfully.

That evening, he learned the weight of that statement. He needs to stop assuming, since it was utterly useless if he had to keep on taking back his comments, like how he had called her the devil incarnate. Without a doubt, she was evil on that train, but she was also an angel who had solved his problem, right when they entered her apartment. And she certainly was not a prude because there was no way that one could scream that loud, especially when these Japanese apartments were so close to one another, with thin walls for all ears to hear.

Or maybe she was just so stubborn that she refused to be labelled, and desperately fought to prove him wrong, even if it meant letting his sharp teeth nibble her like delicious meat or letting his groin ride her like a bucking horse.

He doesn't even know what it means to be Japanese anymore, and it doesn't matter.

She's just Maka.

A/N:

Don't judge a book by its cover! When I was in Japan, I dated this Japanese musician— 6'1", messy hair partially bleached blonde, lip ring, great sense of style, with a rebel bad-ass look. But he always let go of my hand as soon as we walked in a train car, only to grab it back when we disembarked. He claimed that PDA (public display of affection) was bad etiquette and it made others feel awkward on the train. I'd totally agree, but holding hands? Weird.

There's one more chapter, and it should be bittersweet. As a warning, it will have a real lemon (and not the suggestive teaser I left above), so please don't read if that's not your thing. ^_~