Spirit Albarn's eyes are the same color as hers – green like a forest, brilliant with all their shades of darkness.

That's how Soul had described her eyes to her, anyway, after his teasing about her pigtails mellowed into whispered, entranced observations about her face. Darkness had bled into the train as they sat on their separate benches, finding each other's outline in the shadows, and it was in those in-betweens that he had said she was a collection of curves and straight lines that fit together into something breathing taking.

Back then she had quietly burned because he had seemed to be overwhelmed with the want to reach out and touch her, maybe cup her face and trace her brow bones with his thumbs, but now Maka doesn't want to remember any of that.

Biting down cries by the water fountain where she ended up falling down, she stares back at the red-headed man who had materialized in front of her without her knowing. Days could have passed by since she left Soul and wandered into the backyard garden - months - but's it's probably only been half an hour.

"You do look like her, but are you really her?" Spirit is saying to himself, amazed.

Sniffling into the long satin gloves Soul had helped her slip into, Maka's head begins to hurt. "I'm Maka, No Last Name."

If Blake were here he'd laugh and slap her back, but he's not, and she's reminded that she hasn't heard from him in too long. Maka traded him for something that was ill-fated, wrong despite all its glory. How is she going to explain this in her letters? As overprotective as Blake is, she can't imagine that he would take the news lying down. He'd run across the world to plow a vengeful fist into Soul's face repeatedly, and even now as she tries to repress memories of Soul and his music, she doesn't want him to get hurt.

Spirit raises a concerned brow. The paternal instinct in him is apparently still alive despite his daughter being dead. "No last name? Why not?"

"Because I just don't," she replies, feeling her heart close off. "I don't even have a real first name. Maka is just a name I barely remember."

"I used to have a Maka, too. A long time ago." Spirit is tearing up, hands clawing at his face and looking up into the night sky like he's asking a God that doesn't exist why it had to be this way. "But I remember her so well. She was small and sweet and liked to dance."

Maka used to love to dance too, but only with Soul, who made her believe she didn't have to know anything about music to feel like she deserved to be by his side. She likes to think she was sweet, too, because Blake called her a softie and people mentioned she reminded them of an angel. And Soul loves sweet things, doesn't he? He had said he'd never tire of them, had said she was small, small and powerful.

Spirit takes a step toward her. "And my Maka loved to read. Do you like to read?"

She wants to tell this teary man that if he came out here to cry with her, he should just turn around and get lost. Her sorrow is hers and hers alone. Heartbreak shouldn't be shared because it's contagious and deadly and she still wants to live - sort of. And besides, asking her about the things she loves isn't going to help either of them.

Look at what happened with Soul.

"I need to leave," Maka says, not moving. There's nowhere to go because she doesn't belong anywhere. Soul was her home and that was a lie. It was silly to think she had a future falling asleep next to him every night, that there was a room inside him meant for her. Maybe there is one but it's just one of those that are off limits, boarded up, so there isn't a point of them being together.

"You kind of look like my Maka," Spirit repeats. "Your hair, especially. And the way you yell… It reminds me of my wife."

Distantly, Maka thinks her argument with Soul must have summoned the man from his reading room and that she should apologize for ruining his dead daughter's birthday party, but she's numb to caring. So what if she interrupted the man's brooding? So what if she let go of her emotions? It had felt wonderful, finally breaking.

"My wife was beautiful, and she deserved be-better… than me." Spirit sounds like a wounded animal waiting for death. "She loved our Maka so much. It killed her when we had to go into hiding… and Ma-Mak… Maka couldn't come with us. It wasn't s-safe anymore. We le-left Maka with Marie and Stein, you see..." He gulps hard. "And all of them die–DIED, when Medusa's mercenary found them. All of th-three of them."

Soul's voice echoes back to her, narrating the story of Shibusen's young princess bearing the child of a commoner, of that couple losing their only child. Though it's choppy because of his wails, Spirit's account sounds like a dream to Maka, an over bright dream that morphs into something dark and scary with people screaming in the background as tables and chairs screech across the floor around her. She imagines she's back there again, a young girl with twin pigtails listening to a piano song, its sound resonating with her as she can't find her parents-

"Our best frie-friends, and our baby girl. Dead."

"And you loved them best of all," Maka finishes with him. In her mind's eye there is a redheaded man who hands her over into the arms of an eccentric-looking man whose face is only held together by stitches. Her mama takes off her ring and necklace with unsteady hands and gifts them to Maka, who doesn't want them, not like this.

"Mhm, most of all," Spirit echoes. "How do you know?"

They both know. They both must know. Maka does, at least, because she can't ignore the parallel between Spirit's past and her repetitive dream, which is actually a memory, one that defies the art of losing. It ebbs from her periphery, permanent in its transience.

No wonder Soul seemed like someone she was forgetting to remember, how much it felt like déjà vu whenever they made eye contact. Maka can't believe the answer's been right in front of her this whole time - he was the boy in her dreams who opened up to her so easily.

And Spirit must be -

Now dry-eyed from shock, Maka unclasps the necklace from around her neck, squeezing it in her palm before wiggling her fingers at Spirit, motioning him over. He drops to the floor next to her, hand outstretched.

"Have you seen this before?" she asks, a little bit frantic. "I've had it since before I could remember."

Spirit goes still, staring at the gold in his palm as if he doesn't understand what she said. Then he pokes it with his thumb, swirling the chain around until he gets to the ring, turning it every which way. "Where did you get this?"

"Mama gave it to me. And then I never saw her again."

When Spirit looks at her, she can hear people tell her that she has her father's eyes. Right now his are made of nothing but disbelief. "Tell me about her. Your Mama."

Mama had black, long hair, freckles, and had made a mistake that she and Papa named Maka. A Queen-to-be, she was gentle and fierce and didn't appreciate being confined to a room with her newborn daughter and husband – she wanted the people to know about her little family, no matter how young she was, because she wasn't ashamed. But her papa's love for her lessened after Maka's birth, and hence the confinement, the start of the royal family's secrets.

The shame wasn't unfounded. Mama's little family wasn't perfect and brought disgrace to the regal name, especially him – Papa, whose penchant for gambling, drinking, and chasing after pretty women hurt even tiny Maka because sometimes he wasn't around to read to her at bedtime. And he made Mama sad, and that made Maka suffer by extension.

Papa was a contradiction – a good Papa, a bad husband.

"And then there was my papa. He was a cheater." Maka clenches her jaw, vision going blurry. She remembers Mama yelling that he didn't come home the night before and how it made her feel unimportant. Even though her mama is gone, Maka feels her pain. "Are you a cheater?"

"Yeah," he whimpers. "And a liar."

Her head hurts, thinking about Soul and his eyes. He is so beautiful, but he isn't honest either. "I hate liars."

"My Maka hated liars, too."

Now she's really crying, silent hiccups splitting her chest. There's no air and she's seeing black as she loses feeling in her limbs. Spirit is there for her, though – Papa is there, arms around her and holding tightly so they're not torn apart again, and it's nothing like deja vu or a dream at all.

It's real.

X

Maka doesn't have a middle name, but she does have a last name: Albarn. Maka Albarn, Grand Duchess of Shibusen.

Or, she could have been if her family hadn't been thrown out of power, but that doesn't matter to Maka and it definitely holds low priority for Papa, who treats her like a princess anyway, buying her dresses as soft and elegant as silk. The tiara he places on her head gleams and twinkles brilliantly, every little doe-eyed child's dream. It's like they're playing dressed up, him in his elegant suit and Maka in a long dress that glimmers in the sunshine streaming in through the open window. Their smiling reflection in the mirror is everything she wanted – someone who loves her unconditionally, someone to love in return.

A parent.

Even after they've found each other, all Papa does is sniffle, though he does it happily. "Look at you, what a beautiful little princess."

"Papa, I'm not a princess," she laughs.

"You're my princess," he coos, holding her out at arm's length. Sometimes, Maka can't tell if he's aware she's not a six-year-old anymore. Maybe in his head time hasn't existed since they were separated, even if she stands at five-foot-two and doesn't read picture books anymore. The lonely child in her doesn't snub the stuffed animals he gifts her, though, piling as many as she can on the four-poster canopy bed he bought and placed in a room he wasted no time furnishing to her liking.

Together, they piece their pasts together, Papa bursting into tears when Maka recalls all the times she had to go without socks in the dead of winter because she donated them to a younger child. Maka isn't surprised to pick up on her papa's less than healthy habits, either. Between their day trips to the beach and exploration of the city, he sneaks away to puff away at a couple of cigars, a cloud of smoke wafting behind him when he returns, the stench of ash stuck to his clothes.

Sometimes, when he's talking about Mama, he refills his glass too many times, his eyes puffy and bloodshot - not from the sobbing they do together as two thirds of a family. Mourning Mama seems like an endless life sentence. Papa stays up too late when he's woozy, their night together starting off with giggling reminiscing fun and ending in less sober gibberish.

Between her worrying and confused happiness, Maka has no doubts she's found her real papa.

He's a mess, just like she remembers.

Every meal is a feast for them, a celebration. Maka has never seen so much food in her life, deciding that she dislikes all varieties of fish but loves anything warm. Comfort food is the best, but desserts have fallen from her favor.

"I remember ice cream was your favorite," Papa reminisces, handing her a cone of cold creamy goodness after her belated birthday dinner. She's finally eighteen, but she had refused to let Papa buy her a cake. There would be no point - she has no wishes left, because they've all come true.

Almost. She can't help but feel empty, like something is missing. Someone.

Wincing, Maka licks at the scoop of vanilla to be polite, humming a forced 'mmm good' before changing the subject to going out for a stroll in the park. Sweet things have a bitter after taste thanks to Soul. He loved sweet things, and she was sweet, too sweet and naïve and unsuspecting and blind to all the clues that had been right in front of her.

Maka tries not to think about Soul Evans, piano prodigy, best friend, shy introvert, engaged young man. So many other things run around in her mind, like how she should write to Blake and let him know she has a last name, how she should bring in some potted plants to liven the house up, but all thoughts lead to Soul when she's lounging in the bath. Time may not heal this wound – it's like she's lost a limb, at times feeling like he should be there when he's not.

He's probably married now, tethered to – what was her name? Anya, Anya Evans, who probably doesn't know that Soul forgets to comb his hair, doesn't appreciate his dimple, doesn't understand why music is so intimate and personal for him. Or maybe she does. There's no ill will towards her from Maka. Hopefully Anya can make Soul happy - if that's possible.

A whole month passes without Maka searching for Soul. And then another month. As disheartening as it is, the fact that he hasn't sought her out either speaks volumes about the state of their relationship.

It's over.

They could have been great together, strong and resilient, a family. Maybe if they had met at another time, things would have turned out differently, but then she wouldn't have reconnected with Papa.

Maybe she and Soul's relationship was meant to be short-lived. He was just passing by, after all. Sometimes she thinks about the way he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against her skin when they held hands and reels back, taking a deep, sharp breath so she won't fall apart. Crying isn't worth the pain. Fighting the need to have him back isn't either, and makes admitting that she has to see him more difficult than it should be.

"I have to get my baby Blair," she tells Papa when they're planning a trip to the beach. "My kitten. She's at So-" She can't bear to say his name, her tongue refusing to utter anything about him. "She's at Wes Evans's house."

Papa chews his scrambled eggs with a thoughtful look. "I'll go with you! I owe his brother a big thank you for returning my princess to me."

Gently tugging at her cheeks before bopping her nose, he tells her Soul is the reason he wandered out to find her that night in the first place. "He came running into my study and wouldn't leave until I agreed to go see you. He said that he met you back in Shibusen and that you looked just like my Maka. And he was right – you even cry like you did when you were six."

Finding her voice is difficult. "Soul did that for us? Even after I left him?"

"Mhm, he brought us together."

She thinks about it for hours, even in her sleep.

X

No more of Maka's memories return.

Maybe they left with her mama.

She lingers with them in the periphery of Maka's vision, just out of her reach. The art of losing is bittersweet like that, taking what means the most (look at what happened with Soul.)

Papa confirms what he can and fills in the rest. Yes, Maka was confined to a room in mama's palace, because her papa's shame allowed some mercy. Barely eighteen and completely disowned from his own family, Papa had no means to support all three of them, so the young family had no choice but to grin and bear it.

"We were saving up to run away together. You, Mama, and me," Papa explains, reclined in his chair, staring at the ceiling unblinkingly. "I remember she was so mad when I bought her that ring. Said I was irresponsible with our money, but she wore it all the time."

Maka plays with the necklace that she still wears around her neck, the ring attached to it. She tries not to think of Soul sliding it on her finger and holding her when she thought she'd lost it.

"You can have it back, Papa."

He whimpers a little bit, hand on his face. "No, I want you to keep it. I don't think I deserve it."

That's the last coherent thing he says for the rest of the night. Maka gingerly coaxes his wine glass out of his hand hours later when he's at the edge of being too far gone. Alcohol isn't the best coping mechanism - she'll have to help him wean off it. His grief knows no boundaries, but she's promised to fight alongside him, because she has some of that built up inside her too, like grime that accumulates on unwashed windows.

Papa cries a lot. He's had a lifetime of bad luck. He's not perfect but he's here somehow, the last standing out of all the people he had loved.

"How did you survive?" he asks her, wheezing.

Maka has been thinking about this long and hard ever since she was six and materialized on the orphanage's home in a bright yellow dress and a coat that looked like it was stitched together. She remembers another conversation, one when Soul was still in her life, and she feels like she's chewing on glass.

"I don't know, Papa. I don't remember…" When she closes her eyes, she finds herself back on the ship, seeing Soul again, his hair blowing in the wind and his eyes bright against the horizon's darkness. She repeats after him: "I don't think horrors like that are supposed to stay with us. It would be too much to carry around."

"You're so smart, Princess. I wish I could forget, too, but I think about it everyday. I think about your mama all the time, and how she only survived the overthrow to be sick all the time… How was I supposed to know that a broken heart could kill?"

Maka knows the rest of the story too well because he can't stop repeating it. Thank goodness she wasn't there - she wouldn't want to see her mama suffer from illness. And Maka is grateful she doesn't recall anything about how she survived except for Stein's marred face and Marie's rose gold hair because Papa says they were killed, and that it was just the start of losing for him.

Nothing is permanent, not even Mama, but Papa holds on to her and what they had with a tight death grip.

Thinking hard, Maka finally understands - loss is a language, one she's inherently fluent in. It's an art that comes with being alive, and it dawns on her that not all fleeting things are gone forever.

Maybe Blake was right and at some point she did hit her head, hard. She's glad she can't remember that.

x

Papa shouldn't be allowed to drive.

This is only one of the few times she's been in a car but she's never been more afraid in her life. Her papa's ideology that other drivers should know to move out of his way is completely wrong and terrifying. Fingers clawed into her seat in case they have to make a sudden stop, Maka has her eyes closed most of the way to Wes's house, taking in cleansing breathes to keep an anxiety attack at bay.

Not all of the chaos in her head is from being in the car, though.

Oblivious and completely lacking tact next to her, Papa practices his fatherly skills. "What were you and Soul fighting about that night?"

About nothing, really, when Maka thinks about it. Nothing tangible existed between them past friendship, nothing labeled nor real. But they definitely broke up. And they're not friends anymore, and can't be, and that's what she tells Papa, who isn't like Soul at all. He sticks his hand out the window to wave to ladies between giving her comforting pats on the back. The voice that wafts through her head sounds a lot like Soul saying, "The guy was – is still – a total pervert."

At least he had warned her about her papa's flirtatious tendencies.

Maka bubbles into laughter, thinking about Soul. It's only a defense mechanism. She's done crying, so there's nothing left to do but remember how Soul had dropped hints all along, from his weird reaction to her ring, to his explanation about the ball and how he knows Spirit, and even to the way he lashed out when people asked if he was married to her.

It's just funny, in a bitter, nostalgic sort of way. She can't even be mad anymore because she misses him, sharp tongue and all. And she's not ready to let go yet, no - it feels like he's just walked out of the room and he'll be back any second, and she's not sure whether she'll hug him for returning or deck him for leaving in the first place.

He wasn't the one who left, though.

"Are you okay, Princess?"

"Papa, I'm not a princess."

That's hilarious to Maka, too – beyond that even, downright hysterical. From rags to riches, to being an orphan to having a papa who loves her best of all. But escaping the feeling that she's lost something in the process is disquieting. So she laughs all the way to Wes's house and doesn't stop even when Papa pulls past the gate and up the driveway, giving her a disconcerted look.

She's given into the madness, and it's perfect.

X

Wes answers the door. Maka's heart drops like a stone at seeing his kind brown eyes instead of Soul's ruby ones, at entering the house where she and Soul had once danced to the music in his head.

"I'm here for Blair," she explains without preamble. Pretending she doesn't care if Soul's around or not is quite a feat. "I want to take her home with me."

"Welcome back," Wes says, bowing. She knows it has nothing to do with her newfound title and everything to do with his over-the-top mannerisms "Right this way, Miss Maka. She's missed you as much as you've missed her, I'm sure."

Blair must have sensed Maka's approach because her meows echo throughout the hallway as they treader closer. They don't end up in front of the door to the room she stayed in, but in front of Soul's.

"She's been a delight," Wes says as he opens the door and Blair leaps out blindly.

"Oh, Blair, you're a big girl now, a big kitty," Maka cries, holding her close. Tears cling to her eyelashes as she closes her eyes, reveling in Blair's pureness and soft fur.

"Soul's been taking care of her," Wes explains, hand on the doorknob.

Maka can't help but force herself to sour at any mention of him. It's superficial though, staged, a lie. It could come crumbling down if she wanted. "Even though he's allergic?"

"He deals well enough." There's a pause before Wes takes a deep breath and starts playing the meddlesome brother. "Maka, please stay and talk to him – he should be back any time. He's out with our parents-"

"No, I think it's better this way." After all, most precious things are temporary – she should have known, because Soul's beauty isn't the kind that lasts forever. Not in her life.

Despite their similar physical features, Wes isn't anything like Soul. He doesn't talk too fast when his emotions get in the way, nor does he beat around the bush, clumsy with his words. "Miss Maka, I promise you that Soul didn't mean to hurt you. He really, really does care about you. He's lost and confused about everything except you-"

She holds her hand out to make him stop. "I just want to forget, Wes. I'm trying to move past it."

Even Wes's frown doesn't look like Soul's. His doesn't stem from deep-seated misery, only second-hand dejection. He's such a good brother, sticking his neck out for Soul. "Can he say goodbye to Blair before he goes back to Shibusen with my parents, at least?"

Maka's blood runs cold, hearing faint wedding bells. Denying that the news breaks her heart would be a lie - a dirty, ugly, revolting lie. All of a sudden she's back at the water fountain, the grief overrunning her like a flood. She's losing Soul again, this time for good.

"Uhm," she breathes, hugging Blair against her chest with wobbly arms.

Wes must see her lips ready to mouth the word 'no' because he says, "Soul loves that kitten so much."

As if offering her input, Blair meows into the heavy silence. It's not fair that everyone around Maka seems to love Soul – strangers who love his music, bands who need a pianist, little orphaned kittens who want to be where it's warm and safe. Even Papa's affinity for him is genuine and has been for over a decade, or else he wouldn't have invited Soul to play at the ball every year, wouldn't have listened to Soul's pleading to go after her that night.

What's more awful is that Maka isn't immune to Soul either.

She wants to see him one last time.

"I mean, I suppose so," she agrees, nodding at Wes's relieved thank you's, unsteady on her heels as he guides her to the door where Papa is waiting outside in the car. Blair jumps into his lap and rolls around as he scratches her belly, both of them playing like old friends while Maka sits in the passenger seat, numb and scared.

Of what, she's not sure – of Soul, of the distance between them, of her decisions, of a life that could have been, of never forgetting him and how he makes her feel.

It's never been about Blair.

X

When Soul visits at the end of the week, finally, Maka surrenders and lets herself think about maybe kissing him. The anger in her heart has dulled into longing by now, even before looking into his eyes. Taboo or not, she wants to kiss him so badly, even if it would be the first and last time. It's really only a logical extension of them, and so what if she's been dreaming about it and him and what they had for a little while now?

Instead, she lets her lips tingle as he stands there at the entrance to the garden, his clothes worn with the same careless disregard he's always fit in them: tie loose, vest unbuttoned, shirt partially untucked, slacks sitting low on slim hips.

His hands aren't delved into his pockets. No, they're bare and empty at his side.

"Hi," he says, cautious.

She feels naked under his gaze, the sundress she has on suddenly not enough. "Soul – hi! I didn't hear you walk up."

"I knocked on the door, but no one answered, and I heard Blair meowing…" Trailing off, he rubs the back of his neck.

"You can come in," Maka offers, heart beating in her throat.

From the bushes where she was hiding, Blair catches wind of Soul's presence and scampers to him as he locks the gate behind him, bending down to take her in his arms. Slight jealousy eats away at Maka, who watches the two nuzzle, Blair purring into his hand as he whispers sweet nothings to her. That could have been Maka -

Ironically, she's the one who feels like an outsider, sitting on the stone bench amongst her papa's vivid roses and thriving greenery. A shiver rolls down her spine as she remembers when she sat with Soul in his family's snow-covered garden, making plans for their future. The same memory must be playing in his mind because he glances up at her with curiosity.

In this light, his eyes are gentle with all their darkness, a red so deep it hurts.

"Uh," he begins. It's endearing – he never did know how to express himself in her presence. "How are you? Are you happy?"

Sort of, almost. Everything's going fine, perfect even, her life finally in order. And yet… She can only nod, afraid her mouth will betray her.

"Good," he says, his voice laced with faint disappointment. He gulps before going on, "I'm leaving today. I wanted to apologize again."

Maka's head throbs with a distant headache. "Don't, Soul…"

Now it's his turn to nod quietly, regretfully. He gives Blair one last hug before setting her on the floor, sneezing shortly after.

"This is it, then. I'm leaving… I just wanted to say goodbye," he says. It reminds her of Blake and how his letters are always encouraging in their own bizarre way. Maka won't have any of that with Soul. At least she can imagine his life going on without her, filled with music and traveling and maybe even love if the day comes he can make himself love Anya.

After all, Maka and Soul can't be just friends, not after what they've been through.

She wants all of him or nothing.

"No, Blair," he chides, petting the kitten on the head anyway before gently pushing her toward Maka. It doesn't work. She keeps coming back, and he's clicking his tongue at her, straightening his back and pushing her away with the toe of his polished shoe.

This time he's not doing it out of fear – there's even a bit of reluctance as he gulps. "You can't come with me. You belong with Maka."

Seeing him practically kick Blair away does something to Maka, who blurts out, "Stop being so rough with her!"

He raises a brow at her but doesn't say anything except a bashful, "Sorry…"

Maka forgives him. For that, and for hiding a bit of himself during the time they spent together. It's hard not to when he's so close and his eyes are so gentle, so strange in this bright light. He was only trying to protect them both from what they couldn't have. She can see that now, and maybe she can force herself to accept it some day in the future, albeit begrudgingly.

She'll have to.

"Well..." There he goes, hands sinking into the deep pockets of slacks that he probably skipped ironing. Hiding again. "Thank you for letting me see Blair."

"Yeah, sure," she says. Swallowing is difficult. "Tell Wes I said thanks too. For everything."

"Mhm." He looks at the ground. "Uhm, and… thanks for listening to my song."

She can't lie. "It was beautiful. Thank you for playing it, Soul…"

What she can't say is that she's grateful for every second of what they had. His dimpled smile, his help, his gentle hands and rumbly voice, his companionship. For his strength, for bringing her to Papa, for his patience.

The way he brightens up kills her a little. "Maybe – maybe I could play it for you again?"

"No," she says too quickly. Of course she wants to hear it again, but it will only delay the inevitable. "Once was enough. I never thought I'd hear that song again, but… once is enough."

Soul says it's okay, but clearly it's not because he kicks at the pebbles near his shoe, probably too upset to look at her.

"I really did love it. Your song."

But if Soul understands what she means, he sure doesn't show it. "Yeah, sure… Whatever."

"What's that mean?" She narrows her eyes at him, outraged with herself that she can't read him. He wears his heart on her sleeve but it's written in musical notes, or maybe braille - either way, she's blind to it sometimes. Anger is all she knows. How is it that she can find the pointy edges of his frown beautiful? Lots of things about him are like that, dangerous and harsh but magnificent.

He shrugs, resigned. "Nothing."

Proud that he's standing tall instead of slouching over, Maka stares at him – it'll be the last time, after all, because she's staying in New York with Papa and Soul's future belongs to Anya, traveling who knows where. So Maka has to remember him how he is, with his sleeves rolled up and hair carelessly tousled, long limbs and understanding hands. They won't see each other anymore, so she has to remember all of him.

The thought makes Maka's eyes sting.

"Okay, well... Good luck," she tries again. It's a good in-between, a safe word. Standing here in the sunshine, in the garden's lovely silence, as they teeter into goodbye isn't going to kill her because she won't let it.

"Yeah," is all that comes out of him.

Losing her patience, the edges of her vision start to blur. She could run through the space that separates them and shake the indifference out of him. This is exactly the Soul she knows, clamming up, moodily shifting his weight, pretending not to care. "What's your problem, Soul?"

"Nothing," he grunts, though his body language tells her otherwise. His mouth is twisted into a scowl now, shoulders tense, elbows locked, teeth clenched. He's holding his breath. Maka can see herself undoing him with only a touch and she's tempted to do so, but if she dares, she might never let go.

"Stop lying. Obviously, something's wrong. Spit it out."

He opens up so easily: "If you hated the song, you could have said so-"

"I never said anything like that, Soul."

"Then why don't you want to hear it again?"

"Because-"

"Because you're done with me, yeah, I get it," he sighs. "I don't blame you."

"I have no choice. You're going to marry Anya!"

Soul swears, loudly, bitterly. "I already told you I'm not marrying her."

Behind him, Maka notices a suitcase sitting by the gate, and it all makes sense – history repeats itself. If he wants a fight, he'll get it; she makes sure to aim a sour look at him as she snorts, "Oh, I get it now – you're not really going to Shibusen with your parents, are you? You're running away again!"

He cackles to himself. "Yeah. You'd think my parents would have learned not to trust me by now."

Maka hadn't wanted this to turn into an ugly, distressing last encounter, but it's not fair that he's shutting down right as he's leaving, even if she has no right to feel entitled. They came here holding hands - isn't it right that they should leave together in the same fashion? She has to remind herself that she's supposed to hate him, that he lied, that it's all his fault they're not together anymore.

"By yourself? No other girl with you?"

"Just me, myself, and I," he confirms. "Not Anya, not anyone else. I'm just going to keep running away, maybe play at some Jazz clubs to make some money, so you don't have to worry about me."

"I won't worry. I don't, actually," she lies, wishing she could go with him because she wants to hear his music, even if she doesn't understand it. She can't stand the thought of being far from him as he pursues something that makes him happy. "Do whatever you want."

"Fine."

"Fine," she says through clenched teeth, holding on to Blair too tightly. "You can leave now, too, since you're being a brat."

Soul backing away shouldn't hurt because he's only doing what he's told, but good God does it start a fire in her lungs. The ground beneath her feet must be tilting - that's why she's seeing double. There is lightning in her blood and thunder rumbling around in her chest as he pretends he doesn't care, drifting farther away.

Surely it's the chemistry between them. Will it ever stop? She both hopes it does and doesn't.

"Fine," he's saying, hands in the air as if surrendering. "As you wish, Your Grace. Thanks for letting me see Blair one last time."

"Yeah, sure – whatever," she sneers.

The jab was meant to disarm and maim and it most certainly does its job. Soul's face reddens with anger, and that's just how Maka has always wanted him – full of emotion for her. "I don't know what you want from me! One minute you're open with me, and the next you're kicking me out-"

"Oh! Oh, no, you don't get to blame me." She stoops down to let Blair run back into the bushes. "That was all you. You were never honest with me. You were always hiding away."

"But I was honest, Maka, about everything!"

"Liar liar liar," she singsongs, straining her voice. The incoherent thoughts that had been whirling around in her head since the night of the ball suddenly come out. "Was any of it real? Did you ever really care about me? You…. oh. Oh. You probably never told me about your engagement because you had ulterior motives!"

Scandalized, he stares at her, offended and hurt and shell-shocked.

"You probably knew I was Maka all along, that Spirit was my papa…"

"Yeah, I had a suspicion," he admits, wincing, probably knowing full well that it makes him look bad.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He takes five steps toward her, every one of them in sync with the slow, loud thrashing in her chest. "There was never a right time to tell you. You never seemed ready, and I didn't want to spring it on you. And anyway, would you have believed me? 'Hey Maka, I think you're royalty, a dead grand duchess.'"

She clenches her fists. "No, but-"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. And I wasn't sure until you told me about your dream when we were on the train, and even then it didn't really make sense until the night of the ball. So there."

His hands are in his stupid pockets again and she wants to tackle him and hold his hands above his head, wants to slant her mouth over his -

The machinery in her head must be short-circuiting because she's imagining the worst about him. Against all of her better senses, she closes the gap between them, marching right up to him, pointer finger jabbing him in the chest.

"I know exactly what your game was, Soul. You knew I was the missing duchess all along, and you thought once I fell in love with you, you could trick me into marrying you. Your parents would be so thrilled at seeing their son married to royalty that they would have left you alone forever!"

Soul's face is still, unreadable. "Did it work, then?"

A whimper escapes as her chin quivers. Don't cry. "You're awful, just awful."

He doesn't waver, doesn't blink. "No, I mean… did you fall in love with me?"

Of course she did – it wouldn't feel like death right now, caught between the edge of a sword and a wall if she hadn't. She's not sure when she crossed that threshold separating platonic love and something more complicated, either. Sometime between catching him staring curiously and dancing with him, her feelings changed, deepened.

"That doesn't matter!" Stay angry, stay angry. "Why didn't you tell me you were engaged?"

"I already told you - it's because I'm selfish. I didn't want to lose you before I had to."

"Oh," she says, having never thought someone could think she's fleeting. It's never occurred to her that someone out there might be afraid of losing her. Not even Papa had considered her something transitory, she supposes, because he had waited and waited for her to return, believing she defied death.

But Soul is like her. Things in his life are short-lived, too: music, his travels. Even his brother, who moved away when Soul was eight and has only seen once a year since then.

"I didn't want you to be one of those things that don't last, Maka."

She should have picked up on this fact when he asked her to accompany him to New York, or when he dropped to his hands and knees and begged her to stay. The cagey look on his face had said it all - he had said it all.

"Don't leave me, don't leave me."

But God, she was stupid then and still is, even now. She needs things said outright. It's the hit she probably took to her head - it rattled her, made her scatter-brained. And she isn't good at thinking straight when it's about Soul.

A bout of sneezes has him turning his head away and it only makes her dizzy with frustration. She's not done arguing with him – she might never be, because that's when they're working their best to harmonize.

"Dumb cat," he coughs into his elbow. "Made my eyes itchy, and now I can't breathe."

Maka sees lightning bolts when she blinks. "She's not dumb!"

"Yeah, you're right. I am. I'm so stupid. I wish I never came here," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. He's still at it when he adds, "... Anya's a princess too, by the way. She's from Yngling. My parents wanted me to marry royalty, so they got royalty. So it's not like you being an Albarn changes anything."

In Maka's mind's eye they're both children again, spinning around on gleaming gold tiles.

"Do you want to dance with me?"

"I've seen you dance and you're not good at it."

"Hmmph! Papa said I dance like a princess."

"Because you are a princess. I've danced with other princesses and they know different types of dances."

It clicks.

The revelation should blow her argument into smithereens, but Maka won't let it. She's a woman scorned, and she's never lost a battle and won't start now, even if this one's self-sabotaging.

"So you have a type. Princesses."

Soul narrows his eyes and brings his face closer to hers, sobering Maka enough for her realize that they're both angry, angry at something, at nothing; the simmering is beginning to boil. They've run out of things to fight about but they keep going at it, going in circles, resolving nothing. The problem is that he's engaged against his will, he never told her, she's mad that they can't be together, but he insists they can still be together - if she'll let them.

It all just makes her blisteringly angry because it's true and it's her fault because deep down, she's just afraid. He knows it, too. Open up, he begs, he wants to hear that she loves him, says she's closed off sometimes, too. Soul knows her like he knows music. He says she's terrified of losing and the hurt that follows it, says she's just like him - self-sabotaging, perpetually lost and confused.

He blames the art of losing - it's making her push him away, and it hurts like hot glass digging itself into his leg. They both run away from the things that make them happy, destructive in their methods to keep themselves safe.

But he's done running.

"Maka, Maka." He sets his jaw. "You're too stubborn for your own good. You don't understand. I care about you so much."

Then he says he's in love with her, but it only heats her up more because he's so far away still, a sliver of a space between their mouths, and nothing can remedy the fact that when they're done arguing about absolutely nothing he'll be…

Leaving.

Accusations run fast and wildly: you lied, you don't listen, how could you do this to us I cared about you, you're not listening I do care, but you're leaving, because you told me to Maka, but you didn't come looking for me, because you left me Maka, because you lied Soul, do you hate me now?

And then there's just breathing or something similar as they look into each other's eyes and go still with the realization that the heated argument only brought their faces closer together. Now they're just staring at each other's lips, standing still like marble statues caught in some tragedy.

She looks into his eyes, thinking hard, but nothing comes to her. "Do you promise that you care? Can you show me that you love me?"

Their whole time together has lead up to this. The air around them has been charging up with unrest, and it only makes sense that neither of them can take it anymore. The simmering is boiling loudly; lightning has finally struck.

Suddenly, his hands slide onto either side of her face, gentle in their roughness as he leans in to close the space between their mouths. She moves to meet him halfway, closing her eyes like she's falling asleep. They collide, finally, and it's only natural that he catches her mid-breath, because it's those in-betweens that find their way under her skin and stay there.

Soul kisses her hard until he can't anymore, his lips like fire, burning even after they've pulled away to stare at each other in the quiet aftermath. And then they're a moment playing on repeat, this time so slow, so soft, so delicate; their lips barely touch. Maka feels faint waiting for it to deepen, to meet him in the depths.

After all, the world is full of brief things, and she's not sure where this falls. But then she decides that's okay because she remembers she's a great follower, a reflection of his that's two seconds behind. Her hands reach for him, taking their time - cupping his cheeks, sliding her hands down to his chest, pulling him closer by the belt loops before deciding that's not enough either.

It's not until she's wrapped her arms around him, tight, that she feels that they've clicked. He must sense it too, because she feels one side of his mouth rising higher than the other before he rests his forehead on hers. "Are you convinced?"

She can't reply, mind already wandering. It's doing that thing where it zeroes in on some insignificant detail when it's overstimulated, and this time it's the fact that his luggage is waiting for him, that he's not permanent enough in her life.

"You promised you'd stay with me the whole time," she says, squinting at him as she thinks, everything coming to her in a whirlwind.

"Mhm, and I always keep my promises."

Letting go of him is easy because she has it all planned out - they're going to be together forever. Maka sweeps her fingers along her neck, finding the thin gold chain she's had since before she can remember, unclasping it. Soul watches her with confused amazement, and she hopes she never stops having that effect on him as she holds her mama's ring out to him. "Do you want to marry me?"

He's dazed for sure. "Me? You're asking me?"

"Yes you, Soul. There's no one else. I - I don't want to lose you..."

She feels her face heat up like it does when she's on the verge of some extreme emotion. Heartbreak is there in her periphery, coming in like the tide, and she lets it flood her. It aches. Face hot, she gets lost in it, in the way Soul's eyes widen, vivid in their fragility as he stares like it'll never be enough.

When he speaks, his voice is raspy, taking the ring and sliding it on her finger. "I can't promise that it'll be perfect, or that I won't make you mad sometimes, but I can promise I'll always be there."

She grins, tearing up even more, face crumpling as she lets go of it all, whimpering, "Really?"

"God, yes. And each time we kiss or fight or dance, it'll be like the first time all over again. I'll play you any song you want, and I'll read to you - I'll sing them to you."

Now she's bawling, sniffling and hiccupping and laughing and thinking that this moment won't last forever, but its brevity is what makes it beautiful. "So… we're really getting married?"

He's laughing with her, fingers in each other's hair as they hold each other close, tips of their noses grazing. "Yeah, we're eloping."

In her mind's eye, she can see herself writing a letter to Blake to let him know she has two last names now, can see her papa bursting into jubilant tears when she introduces Soul as the newest member of their healing family. She can see herself and Soul moving through life together as equals even though she's not entirely here sometimes, even though she can't read sometimes.

"Wait," she gasps, panicked. She's always two seconds behind and that's permanent, but she figures she doesn't have to be perfect because she has a musician who keeps time well. "You never finished your story!"

"It's not over yet," he grins. "Promise you'll stay with me to see how it plays out?"

"Promise."

No matter how long Maka stares into Soul's eyes, it's never quite enough, but she feels dizzy standing here in the bright garden with her soulmate. She puts her hands over his eyes, thinking that she'll have forever to admire the darkness in them, because he's nothing fleeting at all.