24this is one of my entries for ResBang 2016! An Anastasia AU, featuring Soul and Maka, of course. thank you to lunar–resonance, thefishywitchy, soul-of-glass, and the-brightest-fell for their support, and to tenbrisael and professor-maka for beta'ing. couldn't have finished this without them!
warnings: death of minor characters before the start of the fic, memory loss, vague mentions of depression and alcoholism.
i beg everyone to check out soundofez's gifs/art and sojustifiable's song/art for this fic! i'll post links in my profile. they truly made this come to life and i'm humbled by their work. the sheer amount of talent they possess individually is astonishing, so to be lucky enough to have both of them as partners has been amazing :']
thank you for reading! i hope you enjoy.
The Art of Losing by redphlox
No matter how long Maka stares, she can't quite come up with a color to describe his eyes.
Tonight, he's sneaking glances while pretending to drink his coffee. She catches him and wonders for the thousandth time where they've met before as he blushes a vivid red and turns away. He's vaguely familiar - she must have crossed paths with him in a past life. Or maybe she's asleep and he's slipped into her dreams, returning like a ghost stuck in a loop.
After all, a certain dreamlike ethereality comes over the bakery at closing time: the sense that time stands still, and the faraway feeling that they're meeting again for the first time whenever they make eye contact.
It's like deja-vu every time she sees him. It makes her head fuzzy.
All Maka knows is she can't help but feel drawn to the frequent patron with the habit of overstaying his welcome, though she never speaks more than five words to him as she refills his coffee mug or serves his favorite chocolate-slathered pastries. The fascination isn't because he's the epitome of high class, with his pristine coats, cedarwood-scented cologne, and hefty tips once he pays his tab - it's his presence, like he's something from a memory.
Someone she's forgetting to remember.
Usually she likes his quiet company, likes the game of cat and mouse they play of catching the other staring, but today she's irascible and wants to go home, even if tomorrow will bring heartbreak. The night has fallen, her head throbs, and her sore feet cry for the sanctity of her lumpy bed and a soothing book. It's not been a good day.
With an inaudible sigh, Maka undoes her apron, hangs it in the backroom, tightens her pigtails, and marches to his table where he's staring down at his messy, musical note scribbled parchment paper.
"We're closed," she announces, offering him a semi-forced polite smile.
His gaze flickers up at her before glancing around. Maka thinks he looks a little lost as it dawns on him that they're the last two left in the bakery. "Didn't notice... sorry."
"Mhmm," she hums, arms folded.
The heat of the oven has long faded and wintery freeze creeps inside from beneath windows that never shut properly, but she suppresses a shiver, never one to back down. Meaning to intimidate, she hovers while he crumbles the inky paper and stuffs the rest in a thick portfolio. She toys with the idea of impatiently tapping her foot as he takes the time to stretch, unhurriedly putting his arms in the air and yawning.
"Tired?" She raises a brow to punctuate the rhetorical question. "Well, me too."
He nods. "Yeah, you were running around like a madwoman. It was busy today."
Part of Maka, the one who's been inexplicably curious about this almost-stranger, sees this as an opportunity to finally break the ice, to ask where they might have seen each other. But her temper is short, excruciatingly short, and she wants to be asleep more than anything. "Exactly. And I just want to close the bakery so I can go home."
Now the stranger furrows remorseful brows, and as he packs his things up reluctantly, it triggers something vague in her memory, of someone else not wanting to leave. She senses a distant fear and dread and misery from him, but the thought is gone as quickly as it surfaces.
What brings her back to reality isn't his low voice mumbling apologies, but his height. A head and a half taller than her when he finally scrapes back his chair and stands, he proceeds to button his parka with shaky fingers, like he's running out of time. Something about the quiet abruptness of their parting is fitting. It makes sense, but she doesn't quite know why or how.
Maybe in another life they didn't have time to say goodbye.
"Sorry for the trouble," he mumbles, putting down more money than what he probably owes, tucking his portfolio between his elbow and ignoring her protests. Heavy footsteps fill the bakery as he heads for the door, a 'thank you' stuck in Maka's throat.
He lingers with his hand poised on the doorknob. "You remind me of someone who was lost long ago," he says thoughtfully, like he's desperately holding onto a memory that wants to be forgotten.
Leaving when she says nothing, the bells above the entrance chime his goodbye.
X
"Okay, I'm leaving!" Blake yells into the house, the children scattering with semi-terrified screams at the sound of his voice. Stomping inside as the door slams shut behind him, he tracks snow all over the floor Maka finished mopping only minutes earlier and throws his hands down on the table where she's sitting, oblivious to her disapproving grimace. "This is it! All the stuff I don't need is in the garbage where it belongs. Now I'm gone for good this time."
Maka wedges her hands beneath her thighs, a knot in her throat. She's been dreading this moment for days - years even, a lifetime. Eye contact is not a skill she can master at the moment. "Good riddance," she says, determined to hold on to misplaced anger. It's easier than feeling the inevitable loss of a surrogate brother.
Blake barks with laughter. He never lets negativity eat away at him, and combined with his ability to read her like a book, it's obvious to her that his loud-mouthed, graceless attempts at conversation are his best efforts to ease the heaviness of going their separate ways. "Don't be sad. We'll be pen pals, if you want. I know you like that nerdy kinda emotional stuff."
She could cry, though it would do no good, bring no justice, no remedy to the sorrow lurking in mere minutes when he's out the door for the last time. It's happened too many times before. The orphanage churns out its inhabitants at the age of eighteen to make room for younger children, and while Maka has said more goodbyes than she cares to count, this is by far the hardest.
"Don't cry," Blake reminds, leaning in so closely she can see his pores.
Sticking a hand in his face to push him away, she swallows the hurt as best as she can. "I'm not crying, I'm thinking!"
"Same thing, for you." He pockets his hands, smirking. In his oversized winter jacket, he looks child-like, which doesn't help mitigate the pain - Blake's always been muscular but small-statured, and now that she doesn't know when she'll see him next, the fear of missing out on his life is cavernous. The thought that he won't be around for her to see if he grows a couple of inches taller stings like salt in a wound.
"Just leave already," she says, clenching her jaw in the immediate silence. It's not the most infallible way to hold in tears, but she's promised herself not break down in front of Blake, who pulls up a chair, apparently bent on prolonging the heartbreak.
"Next year you'll be leaving too," he begins, thoughtful. Rare is it for him to show the more somber side of his personality. The worry line traversing his forehead formed by wrinkled brows is startling. "You'll be eighteen and you can start a new life. You can be whoever you want."
"Is that what you're going to do?" Maka summons all the pent-up resentment she's been storing. "You're going to forget all about Auntie and the kids and the orphanage - and me?"
The look he gives her is genuinely innocent. "I couldn't forget even if I was dropped on my head like you were, No Name."
"Don't call me that. And I wasn't dropped, I hate it when you say that!" Maka certainly doesn't know if that's true or not - no one does - but she can pretend. It's not that she's scattered-brain; she's just not all there, stuck in a past life.
"Right," he says, strumming his fingers on the table. "Just don't forget me either. I know that happens to you, with your memory loss and everything."
There's a permanent lump in her throat. She can't reply.
He shifts around, probably searching for safer words to use now that her impatience is borderline dangerous. She feels like water a few seconds before it begins to boil. Though she possesses many talents, hiding her emotions isn't one of them, and neither is covering one up with another. Tears are imminent, whether they're born from anger or the kind of grief that rims her eyes with painful red for days.
Blake snaps his fingers to get her attention, which doesn't bode well with her. "Remember when we were little and we'd give each other new names and make up new lives?"
Maka stares daggers, holding her breath. She can't cry if she can't breathe because she's filled to the brim with rage, right?
"Well… now that can be a reality. And, if you remember, we were always related to each other in some way when we played that game." Blake sits up straight, sighing before standing up and pushing the chair in - something he's never done, despite Auntie's constant scolding. "So yeah. Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I'm gonna forget you. And anyway, I'm basically being kicked out. Otherwise I'd stay here to liven things up, but Auntie would slaughter me and use my dead body as a flag or something-"
Maka breaks like glass that's been under pressure far too long: all too quickly, with a sharp and painful gasp, dangerously. Sobs wrack her chest. Everything's in a blur thanks to the tears now streaming down her cheeks, each clipped breath she takes adds to the hurt she's trying to cleanse out, and soon she's reduced to a hyperventilating little girl whose throat begins to ache from inhaling cold air.
She hates crying.
All she can do is hide behind her hands while Blake stands there silently, offering a rough pat on her head. Childhood memories of him helping her up whenever she fell, saving an extra cookie for her, and offering well-meaning comfort when other grown up children left the orphanage come rushing in, and it's honestly the first coherent, sane thought she's had all day.
"Shhh, it'll be okay," he's saying. "Auntie wouldn't skin me now that I'm an adult... I think."
"That's not why I'm crying," Maka sniffles. Her face is hot. Another wave of emotions is on the horizon, so taking advantage of this clear moment to communicate is a must. "There's no way we could lose each other even if we tried, right?"
"Nope. We're stuck. That's what I've been trying to tell you, No Name. You're just stubborn and you don't listen, you know?"
"When I'm an adult, I want official papers to say that my name is Maka," she declares, wiping her nose, easily pretending they're children again and not two youths at a fork in the road. "And I want to have a last name. And I want to find my parents and have a family."
Some of the orphans at the home don't care about their past, or lack thereof. Blake (goofy, maniacal Blake, whose tendency to escape from the orphanage was celebrated by both Auntie and other children alike, for his love for mischief proved to be more than what could be handled) has never flinched at his parentless life. He's his own guardian and no one can make or break him – he's the star of his own life, and never misses an opportunity to remind her that she is in command of hers, too.
It's always been clear that Maka, who taught herself to read, write, and solve complex math problems that students half her age couldn't work out, is self-sufficient, even graduating a year early to focus on saving money before it's her turn to move out. She has Blake to thank for her strength, though. Rough, overprotective Blake, only a year her elder, her rival and best friend all rolled into one bullheaded tank of energy.
Life at the orphanage is both melancholic and comfy, but Maka had reveled in it, in having an almost normal childhood, a sort-of older brother, in the makeshift family they had. Together, things felt right, natural, with plenty of baby siblings to play with and an adult figure who stuck her neck out for them if trouble came their way. But once upon a time, Maka had a real family, and she can't stop thinking about the what-ifs and things she fuzzily remembers.
The almosts haunt her. She wants them to stay, to have been a reality.
Now that Blake's leaving, the last remnants of her childhood she had are lost. Sure, Maka had known from the start this day would come, that their time together came with a deadline, but it still hurts. His permanence has always been fleeting. At least she's self reliant, even though the memory loss has her reeling, afraid she's not entirely here.
It's hard to accept that everything is changing; he's leaving, and she has to learn to let go with dignity and grace.
"So don't stress out about things you can't remember," he finishes, punching her on the shoulder gently. "We don't need last name or parents, so if… if you don't find either of yours, that's okay."
"At least you have a last name," she grumbles, feeling misunderstood. "I'm Maka, No Last Name, no solid past to speak of. It's like I was born as a six-year-old with someone else's memories or something."
"Look, the way I see it, you can make up your own last name. I have one, but I've always been at this dump. So it's not fair that some people I can't remember picked something to call me and then beat it, or kicked the bucket, or whatever. Same for you. You're Maka, and that's it. Don't worry too much."
It's true that Maka is no one's daughter. No matter how much she has tried to gloss over it and spin the words so it doesn't sound poignant, the fact that she had a past but can't remember it is damaging, hollowing, the loneliest reality.
For the last few months, Blake has refused to let anyone accompany him to the train station, and now the day has arrived he's upholding his resolve. He steals Maka's uneaten toast and slathers it with extra butter for an energy boost for the trip west while Maka scolds him to cover up the fact that she's already missing him terribly.
"I've never had, like, a Life Plan," he says between mouthfuls, crumbs sprinkled on his chin. "And you don't really have one either - don't get mad, just listen... You might only have a first name, but you're gonna go far. That's all I'm saying."
"I can have it all," she says, as if saying it made it true. How she's going to make it come true, she doesn't know, but she's nothing if not stubborn in her dedication.
Blake nods in agreement, shuffling to the door when it's evident they're both out of things to say before his departure. He pokes his head and arms out, dragging in a cardboard box.
"I got this kitten for you," he says offhandedly, shoving the vulnerable bundle at her roughly. "Thought you two had lots in common. I was walking down the street when I saw a dog was trying to bite it and it reminded me of you. All small and baby-ish and kind of dumb and lost. Just don't let Auntie see her - you know how she says she can't house any more animals."
"Thanks, Blake," she says softly, pausing to sniffle. Then, tougher: "And I'm not a baby. Or dumb."
He shrugs, glancing around the kitchen one last time, refusing to look at her. By the way his shoulders curve in and his voice softens, the moment and its significance has gotten to him, too. "What're you gonna name it?"
"Blair," Maka decides, looking at its shiny black fur and tiny paws.
"No last name, like you?"
"Not until I find out my real last name. Then we can both have the same one."
She thanks him, he tells her to think nothing of it, and they hug for the last time in what will be quite a while, Maka holding on until he grumbles about snot on his jacket in a funny-sounding, shaky voice. His exit is less exuberant than his entrance, shutting the door quietly behind him. Maka watches him through the kitchen's window - he doesn't look back, and she doesn't expect him to, but Blake does waver at the gate, and that makes her eyes sting all over again.
X
Maka loses her hat the next day.
Of course, it's replaceable - most things are gained with the distant understanding that it's meant to be lost at some point, to be forgotten or discarded. The temporariness of things isn't what makes Maka's eyes glassy or the tip of her nose red with emotion.
It's the timing.
Yesterday Blake moved onto a different phase of his life, and today, probably because she has a habit of tossing on her winter accessories as she dashes out the door, her only hat apparently fell to the snow-blanketed ground somewhere during the trek between the orphanage and the bakery.
At least she hasn't lost her ring. That would devastate her to pieces.
Retracing her steps means reporting late to her shift, but at this point, Maka can't take any more losses, material or not. Auntie will probably find Maka another job if she gets fired from this one, so Maka turns around and hopes for the best. The snow is ankle-deep and stark white, blinding under the sun's warmth-less rays – spotting the hat should be easier than finding a stain on a wedding dress, but it isn't. She follows her footprints back to the orphanage to no avail.
The hat is gone forever.
Maka straightens her back, clenches her jaw, and heads back toward town with her chin held high. She won't cry. It feels like freezing glass scrapes at her ears when the wind howls, but she doesn't allow herself to flinch. She doesn't grin, but she bears it. Even her neck feels naked and freezing –
"You dropped this," a voice says when she stops at a crosswalk, holding a bundle of cloth in front of her. It seems familiar, with its deep red hue and fringed ends, and then it clicks – it's her scarf. "It flew off of you in the wind."
"Thank you, thank you," she sighs, holding it close like a lost loved one and feeling the knot in her throat tighten because she narrowly missed losing something again, this time without knowing. She squeezes her eyes shut to seal away tears before looking up and – "Oh! It's you!"
He blinks as if he's woken up from a dream, dazed and astounded. Maka thinks she's on the threshold of coming up with a name for the color of his eyes when he says, "I didn't recognize you... You're the girl from the bakery…"
She feels dizzy. "Yeah, I'm going there right now."
Something about seeing him outside of the bakery is surreal and moving, like she's remembering another time they bumped into each other by chance and she held out her hand to ask something, but the epiphany slips away like most precious things do.
She hates when things are on the verge of being.
Her cheeks burn as she remembers her briskness last night. "I apologize about yesterday…"
"Don't mention it. I did stay past closing. I was so, uh, engrossed in my music I guess time just slipped by."
She wraps the scarf around her like a shawl and, when she finds that he's still staring like he's seen a daydream come to life, offers him a companionable smile. "Were you on your way to the bakery, too? We can walk together."
They tread snow in comfortable silence, Maka wallowing in what he said the night before - that he reminds her of someone who was lost. No other word captures her quite like that one, and the fact that she doesn't believe in coincidences makes her think he might be onto something. She'd fallen asleep thinking about that possibility last night, so it's funny they're together now – they seem to be together a lot unintentionally, him spending hours composing at the bakery while Maka fills orders and decorates cakes.
By the time they're around the corner from the shop, she has gathered enough bravery to strike up a conversation. "About what you said yesterday... I feel like I've seen you, too. You're like a memory or a dream or something. Where have we met before?"
He squints with the effort of remembering. "... At a ball? Years ago?"
The disappointment gives her a stomach ache. She's had dreams about elegant balls with fancy china and live orchestras and a boy who played a song for her, but she hasn't been to one. "You must be thinking of someone else. I don't even know how to dance."
There he is again, staring. She can't help feeling like she's missing something important.
"What's your name?" he asks, looking worried.
"Maka, I think."
He goes still. "And your last name?"
"This is going to sound strange but, I - I don't have one. Or at least, I don't remember it."
She wants to explain more, wants to start from the beginning and pull out the ring that hangs from the necklace around her neck to share a little of herself, but opening up might ensure she never stops talking, never stops hurting.
He seems to understand. "Maka," he repeats, saying it slowly to see how it fits in his mouth. It must click right because he says it two more times. "That sounds familiar."
Usually this is when the other person says their name and introductions are passed around. Instead, he holds the door to the bakery open for her, but doesn't follow. He was just passing by, he says when she asks if he would like his usual order, and he saw her scarf fly off and didn't want her to miss it.
She could cry but it wouldn't fix anything. It's never been about things, never, but the symbolism of losing her hat right after Blake left is too coincidental for her to ignore. And even though the ice between herself and the stranger isn't quite broken, she definitely can't ignore that the scarf has brought them closer...
But, of course, he was just passing by.
X
Loss is a language, one Maka is inherently fluent in. It's a skill, an art. Maybe she had too much practice in a previous life.
People are fleeting and don't return, even if they promise otherwise.
Even Mamas and Papas.
Maka harbors no ill will towards them, whether they meant to leave suddenly or not, whether they came back and looked for her to no avail or simply turned their backs without a second thought... But not knowing what exactly happened is hurting her. She's suffering somewhere deep within herself, sorrow accumulating on her like lint. It must be why life seems abstractly pointless sometimes.
After all, people come and go. Even feelings and memories are temporary.
The transience of it all haunts her. It's not fair.
Lately, when she's too tired to sleep, which is always, she cuddles in her bed with Blair, cozy underneath her blanket. Tonight Maka's mind buzzes with things she almost remembers, with a piano song she wonders if she'll ever hear again. Loneliness and loss always hit her worst at night, probably because she possesses next to zero energy after a long day to battle insecurities around bedtime.
"Blair, if I left, would you go with me?"
The kitten only looks up to stare blankly.
"Doesn't matter," Maka decides after losing the staring contest. It was a matter of time - her eyelids are heavy with perpetual drowsiness. "I'd take you with me."
X
Maka is forced to sneak Blair into work when Auntie grows suspicious of the meows and scratching noises coming from Maka's room in the attic. Pets aren't allowed in the house and Auntie is more terrifying than a dictator when she's enforcing rules. Maka is lucky that the other two small beds in that room are empty, but she doesn't like to think about it too much - she's in the room the older kids move to before they leave permanently. To think that she's the eldest child at the home is unreal and semi-terrifying.
"Shh, be quiet and don't make make too much of a mess," she implores, making a nest for the kitten in a basket she finds in the broom closet. Every time Maka tries to leave, Blair jumps out and follows her until Maka gently nudges her away with her foot. She keeps the door ajar so Blair won't be left in the dark but props a broom in the crack, hoping it keeps her contained.
It works until he walks in, the bell's chime stirring Blair's curiosity and forcing Maka to put away the book she pulls out when the bakery is slow.
The sound of the broom hitting the floor alerts Maka of the animal on the loose, but she's busy taking the young man's order - coffee. He runs on coffee and pastries no matter what time of day. Fear of being fired if customers find out their food may have feline fur on it replaces the excitement that buzzed through her at seeing him again. She doesn't think he'll report it to the store owner, but anyone else who walks in may not be as understanding.
Blair doesn't have a care in the world. No shame, no tact. She prances across the cafe, her black coat obvious against the hardwood floor.
The stranger's mouth falls open. "Is that… a cat?"
Maka winces from behind the counter, coffee mug held midair. "Yes? … I'm so sorry, I can't keep her locked in my room at the home anymore. I promise she's gentle and listens really well!"
Of course, Blair doesn't. No matter how many times Maka pleads or bribes or threatens, Blair refuses to stay still, choosing to strut from table to table and brush up on the stranger's legs, wearing a coy smirk. Soon she's bouncing off the walls with Maka hot on her tail, meows sounding like laughter at Maka's profuse swearing.
The customer shimmies off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he bends down, beckoning Blair. "Okay, c'mere…"
Curiosity seizes her - like human, like pet. She stops in her tracks, ears twitching, and stares at him with coherent yellow eyes, seemingly calculating her next move. She takes a hesitant step toward him. Two, three, until she's taking a leap and cuddling in his arms, purring, content beyond belief, and the young man grins wide at Maka and oh, has she seen his dimple somewhere before?
"Thanks - that's the second time you've given me something I've lost…" Maka holds her hands out, ready to take the rogue kitten, but Blair must know that Maka is planning to lock her in a cage for a million years as punishment because the hisses that come out of her mouth are deafening. A frantic flurry of paws and claws and teeth result in Maka shrieking and gashes across the stranger's face, right near his dimple.
The next five minutes finds him sitting on a chair while Maka dabs a rubbing alcohol soaked cotton ball on his cheek. He won't accept any of her apologies. Maka doesn't know what's worse - that Blair violently attacked her customer, or that she's currently curled up in his lap while Maka cleans up her mess.
"... It's fine," he's saying. By the way he's tapping his foot irregularly and not giving in to Blair's nuzzles for a scratch behind the ears, Maka knows it's not. "At least she didn't get me in the eyes. I need to be able to see to write music."
Mortified or not, his paradoxical statement doesn't elude her. "Would extra blueberry muffins help you feel better?"
He finally looks up at her, contemplating. She's delighted to see him with his cap off, to find out that his hair is snowy white and tousled and goes well with his almond-shaped eyes. "I think muffins would help me feels tons better," he concedes, grinning, flinching because of the scratches.
"What's your name?" she asks, staring.
"Soul."
It's a lovely name. Maka adds it to what seems will be a long list of things about him that fascinate. He bites down a smile as she compliments his dimple and they spend the rest of the evening together, taking breaks from their respective work to say something to the other, the ice between them beginning to break.
x
After that evening, Maka soon finds that she can't stop thinking about the boy from the bakery.
No – the young man. The only boyish thing about Soul is his crooked, sheepish smile, the way he slouches forward as if uncomfortable in his body, like he doesn't know how to exist in it. He doesn't walk around with his nose in the air like the other young adults do in his position, the ones who are freshly cut loose from their parent's financial restrictions. Trust fund babies don't mull over work in a bakery, don't sit and people watch, don't hold stranger's cats.
And they definitely don't talk to girls wearing worn ankle boots, especially not poverty-stricken ones like Maka.
Maybe that's why all her thoughts lead back to him. Soul did say she seemed familiar. It feels right being with him. No one's ever stopped and stared at her, slack-jawed, when they saw her across the room for the first time. Part of Maka wants to be immortalized and this might it - he does wear a pensive face when he stares out of the corner of his eye.
She's a realist through and through, but she can permit herself some space to hope he's recognized her? That he knows who she is?
After all, Soul seems like a dream, too - a cross between a memory and a fantasy. Too good to be true. It's not just his words "you remind me of someone who was lost," but his eyes. They're not quite right. They're just… beautiful. Familiar.
More often than not, Maka falls asleep trying to put a name to the color of his irises.
x
When Maka wakes up sometimes, it feels like she's still sleeping. Or maybe it's the other way around, because in her dreams it feels like she's awake.
There is always a glorious ball.
Maka floats in the middle of the dance floor, a child who's barely tall enough to reach the grown up's hips. A gold dress, a brilliantly gold dress like sunshine, falls around her feet, and there are people, hundreds of people, swaying around her as majestically and in sync as figurines rotating on a music box. Heigh ceilings float above her head, polished floors shine beneath her shoes, but nothing exists outside of that. When Maka looks up all she can see is are reflective gems hanging off the chandeliers, and when she blinks she finds she's still looking at the tiles.
And then, from one breath to the next, she's a stranger to herself. Nothing else in the world exists but fragile serenity, and she can't seem to remember her own name. There is beauty everywhere, sadness looming in the distance, like someone's getting tired of holding their breath. Maka looks around but can't see her parents to ask for help but it's okay, even though something tells her it isn't and she ignores it.
Her dream is always like this, like she's aware of the premonition but can't change the course of events because she's reliving it.
Hair bundled in pigtails, she spins in circles to make them sail around her head, focused on nothing but trying to go faster. It's not until she bumps into someone her age with strange eyes that she's aware she's dancing by herself. She's not sure what color his irises are but it doesn't matter; she's just glad he's there. Now she's not alone and she can share the moment with someone. Besides - he looks lonely, and Maka feels an urge to talk to him.
He has beautiful eyes, like rubies.
She wants to dance with him. The moment she realizes this desire, he's off the floor, hand in hers. They twirl around in the crowd like two peas in a pod.
It feels right being here with him.
"My name is Maka," she says to the boy who looks like someone she has never known but wants to know for some reason. She's never been around kids her age and she's excited to meet anyone she can.
"Happy birthday, Maka. I'm going to play you a song on the piano as a present. I'm nervous."
This party must be in honor of her. She has no idea how he knew that without her knowing first, but the thought dissolves as soon as she thinks it.
He looks worried. His hair is parted neatly and brushed to the side, and she knows he doesn't like it by the way he lets go of her hand to play with it. When he says his name, Maka thinks it's nice. She doesn't quite hear it but it's there and she likes it. She can't remember forming the words either, but they are there too, floating in mid-air between herself and the boy.
She squeezes his hand. "Don't be nervous. If you want, I'll close my eyes while you play."
"I have to play up there." Not even voices are sturdy things, Maka thinks, because his breaks. She follows his gaze to the grand piano on the raised platform in the front of the ballroom. "In front of everyone."
"My papa will tell everyone to close their eyes." She's sure of it, doubtless in her trust of her parents. They take good care of her, so it only makes sense they would take care of him, too. "I'll go ask him right now, if you want."
"I have to face my fears," the boy insists, terror lighting up his eyes. "People scare me but I'm tired of feeling like this, so I'm going to do it."
"You're so brave. I want to be just like you!"
"Oh, you don't." He sounds dead, or like he wants to be. "I'm not good at anything besides piano, and even that's kind of awful."
She points out that since they started dancing together, they haven't crashed into anyone, and that's all thanks to him. Didn't he say she was a bad dancer? She doesn't remember him saying it but it makes sense. She had knocked him down when she was twirling around, after all. "So you've already taught me lots."
He looks hopeful. "Thanks."
Maka can't stop staring at his smile. "What's that hole on your face?"
He lets go of her hand to cover up the side of his mouth. "That's my dimple. It embarrasses me."
"Don't hide it, I think it's cute!"
Twirling around the dance floor with him is lovely, surreal. When Maka smiles he does, and when he leads, she follows. He's also a good listener. He listens all about Papa and Mama and her favorite ice cream and Mama's gold wedding ring Maka loves so so so much. Maka's been promised that one day when she grows up it'll be hers.
"I'll introduce you to Mama and Papa and then I'll show you the ring," she says. "But only after you play."
"Okay. I should get ready then," he says, and Maka nods, distantly sad their time together is cut short. Then the boy smiles and extends a hand to her, bowing. "I owe you a dance when I get back."
Maka knows he won't be back, but not because he doesn't want to. How does she know that?
"Sorry you don't like playing in front of crowds. There should be a curtain or something so people don't have to look at you. I can ask Papa to get one for you."
Maka has absolutely no idea what she's talking about, but it makes sense to the boy.
"You're nice," he says. "Do you… do you want to be my friend?" The boy looks surprised the words came out of his mouth.
"Me? Really?" Maka gasps, and then bursts into a fit of giggles, covering her mouth. "I would love to!"
He looks thoughtful. "I hope you like my song," he sighs, and drifts off, leaving Maka to stare after his retreating figure, thinking hard, but no thoughts come to her. Where are her thoughts? Where is her mind?
Maka watches her new friend play on stage. It's a lovely song, light and magical, like a dream, a lullaby. And then he's fading, fading away, and the overbright party turns dark and scary. There's a red-haired man crying and people screaming in the background while Mama takes off her ring and necklace and gives them to Maka as a consolation because they're going their separate ways.
In the end, her parents aren't the ones who leave - Maka is, even if she doesn't want to, like her new friend she doesn't see ever again in this life.
But at least Maka has her mama's ring.
