Soul Eater 1. Above the Stratosphere

**See You Later. [**A B O V E _ T H E _ S T R A T O S P H E R E**] **

by Stré

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><p><em>Dedicated to those suffering from wanderlust, to the youth struggling with their future, to the romantics wondering if fate exists.<em>

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><p>He is thankful that he managed to book a window seat because his habit for poor posture always encourages him to lean on something, especially when he is tired and cannot force his body upright. He can never get used to those horrible neck-pillows, and although he does carry one, he prefers resting his head against the window.<p>

Earphones are a must when travelling very long distances, particularly during this 12-hour flight. In fact, they are just essential no matter where he is going. He has always been a nerd for music. The good kind, of course. Not the crap that's probably blaring from the stranger sitting beside him.

As he watches the sight of clouds floating below, he wonders where he is drifting or why he decided to even travel in the first place. For a second, he remembers his previous girlfriends, and although they've all been different from one another, he does recall them having one common link: each of them have broken up with him because of his distant nature, claiming that they didn't feel loved or cherished, despite all the times he has bent his slouching back for them and never left their side under any circumstance. They confessed that they felt lonely when they were with him, and a few were bold enough to admit that they even felt _empty_ after having sex. His head was apparently stuck too much in the clouds, and he can't help but chuckle at the metaphor. Maybe that's why his hair is snow white. And it would also explain why he never felt quite _there_ when he was around people.

Just like those clouds, he lets the wind carry him, always going with the flow, and never really hanging on to any strong desires that would keep him tied down. He can't really pinpoint why he is like this, or when he became so jaded. All he knows is that he's currently wandering and searching for a direction that could lead him out of his indifference, out of the sheer boredom that describes the twenty-four years of his life—okay, maybe early childhood wasn't so bad, so make that sixteen instead.

Why Tokyo, he wonders to himself. He is once again unsure, but he has always felt intrigued by the place. He didn't bother planning anything about his trip, not even where he is going to stay when he gets off this plane, which kind of poses a problem when filling out that annoying embarkation card since it clearly asks for his 'intended address in Japan', but he simply shrugs if off and decides to deal with it later. For now, his sole concern is getting some sleep.

Yet he can't.

There is warmth being pressed against the side of his thigh, and he can only suppose that it's coming from the stranger next to him. When he first got on the plane, he arrived before this person, so he wasn't forced to interact with them. Moreover, it had only been an hour since takeoff and his bladder was far from being full, so he has yet to even engage with the awkward excuse-me-I-have-to-pee downside of sitting by the window.

He essentially has no idea what this person looks like because his gaze had been firmly locked onto those clouds, occasionally shutting his lids when he was too deep in thought. But he can no longer ignore their presence, since the contact is growing more apparent, with a knee now gently poking into his flesh.

He still refuses to look at them, mainly because the acknowledgement may lead to conversation, and he was never particularly fond of interacting with strangers. He takes in a moment to breathe in the smell, and his nose captures a faint hint of laundered garments and fresh shampoo. It's probably female. Or maybe it's some pansy guy. No, it's way too soft, so definitely female.

His full attention is thus fixated on the pleasant scent, and he can't escape as the arms of nostalgia lock him in a tight embrace. It brings him back to his early childhood, at the age when he actually did find the world interesting, when his curiosity stood at the forefront of his actions. He often played hide-and-seek with the maids who were really just trying to get him to attend his private piano lessons, and it would turn into quite the event as the entire staff had to team up to look for him. His favourite memory was when they spotted his white shock in the garden, and he had evaded their grasp by running between wide sheets that were hanging to dry, purposely tugging them off their pegs and letting them fly in the faces of those chasing him.

Crisp linen billowing in the wind, the feeling of its sundried and refreshing quality. He could never forget that sweet aroma, of a time where he could be carefree and relaxed from the pressure of responsibility. He inhales another deep breath, and his olfactory receptors tingle in delight from the lovely stimulation. It is the feeling of comfort, of familiarity, of a place he has been longing for, so he closes his eyes, and allows this stranger to further invade his personal space.

She however digs too deep as her head suddenly lolls against his shoulder, immediately forcing his lids open from the abrupt contact. The boundaries have been officially overstepped, but he still does not have the courage to confront her, even though he's dying to see her appearance.

His shoulder now feels a warm sensation, and it seems to rapidly spread throughout his body, to the places where she isn't even touching. The heat rushes through the channels of his veins and they fuel his heart to pump at a furious pace, leaving his mind in a panicked peace, which is a complete oxymoron that somehow describes his current state. The scent calms his soul, but the touch leaves him restless.

Curiosity is infecting his blood, and he is consumed by the desire to know what she looks like. Such a sensation is once again nostalgic, and he reverts back to his six-year old self, at that time when he took action without caring about consequences. He finally decides to steal a look at the girl.

His eyes are discrete and the action is swift. In that quick glance, his questions are answered, but he's still feeling unfulfilled because the result was somewhat anti-climatic.

She's just average.

With lank ash blonde hair framing her small face, she was neither beautiful nor ugly. Her features did have a slight exoticism, but she nevertheless appeared like a normal caucasian-american girl. She did not seem to wear any makeup, her unblemished skin left glowing in its natural state, with a complexion that was both plain yet endearing.

He wants to look again, so he turns his head to study her face once more.

He doesn't know if he's being influenced by her scent, or by the fact that she's innocently dozing off on the shoulder of a stranger, but the word 'cute' pops in his mind, and he can't help but crack a smile. She was average, but she was no doubt interesting. And it had been a long time since he found interest in something or _someone_. He lets her sleep on his shoulder, while he rests his head against the window, and allows slumber to overtake him on this peacefully exciting ride.

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><p>"I'M SO SORRY," exclaims a rather embarrassed female voice.<p>

The sound awakens him, and he directs his gaze to the speaker in question. He had forgotten his surroundings, but now that a pair of big green eyes draw into focus, he immediately snaps back to reality.

"Don't worry about it," he mumbles, still not fully awake. "I didn't notice much cuz I was asleep." He ruffles the back of his head, further tangling his permanently messy hair, and lets out a yawn that he wasn't shy to hide.

"Oh shit," she panics to herself. "I totally just woke you up. I'm so sorry!" She looks at him imploringly, a green filled with honest pleading emotion.

"Chill out, you don't need to apologize so much," he tried to reassure her, but she still looked guilty, with those eyes that were now making him feel uncomfortable. "I probably would have done the same cuz I can hardly ever sit up straight."

She glances at his deep slouch, and a fit of giggles shakes her chest. He doesn't know how to respond, and she doesn't quite break the silence with any conversation. Luckily, the stewardess is passing out the first meal of the flight, which somewhat eases their growing awkwardness of each other's newfound presence.

He chooses the American option (with potatoes), while she chooses the Japanese (with rice). Maybe he should have taken the same as hers, to be adventurous like she was currently being. Either way, both meals were borderline edible, tasting much like cardboard, but it served its purpose in fuelling his tired famished body.

They are however back to square one, to the awkward feeling of self-consciousness, or at least that's how he is feeling, since he cannot tell what's on her mind. He wants to talk to her, but he doesn't know how to initiate it since he has never done it before. While his brain is trying to remember what other people have usually said to start conversation with him, his impulse takes a shortcut and his mouth rambles the first question that comes to mind.

"So, where are you going?"

His brain finally catches up to his current situation, but it's too late to change the words that were already uttered. Stupid, he thinks to himself. He's on a fuckin' plane to Tokyo and she's sitting beside him. Where is she going? TO FUCKIN' TOKYO. He's really not meant to interact with strangers, or maybe he just isn't cut out for this type of travelling experience that requires being an extrovert. He probably should have stayed back in Death City, in that Nevada bubble where he could have been in the comfort of his own—

"Home," a smooth voice answers, freakishly finishing off his own inner monologue.

His mind halts, and takes a few steps backwards: did she just respond? Yes, she did. Now say something without sounding like an idiot.

"Home?"

Nope, still an idiot.

"Yeah, I live in Tokyo... actually, more like Yokohama," she informs with her gentle smile that soothes his mind, reassuring him that his questions aren't completely retarded. He gains a little confidence to carry on the small talk.

"Oh, so how long have you've been living there?" He assumes that she's either studying abroad or teaching English like a lot of Americans usually do when they're living in Japan.

"In Yokohama? Only for about 2 years. My mama decided to move back to her hometown in Kyushu, but there was no way that I'd follow her cuz I'm studying at Toudai." All of these Japanese names are completely foreign to him, but he doesn't bother to ask for any clarification. "Not only that, but I've lived in Tokyo all my life, so I wasn't about to leave all of my friends and my part-time job. So when Mama decided to move, I had to find my own place, and Yokohama was a cheaper option than Tokyo."

He's a little confused at this point. By what he could gather, this meant that…

"Wait, are you Japanese?" He swears this is _not_ a dumb question because she clearly doesn't look Asian, and although he may have just sounded like an ignorant American, he was pretty sure that Japan's demography was rather homogenous compared to the diversity in the States.

"Yes, I am," she says without a hint of offense. She's used to this question, since she has heard it repeatedly as far as she can remember. "I'm mixed, but I guess I took after Papa a lot more… but _just_ in appearance because Papa's so stupid and I'd never want to be associated with him if I had the choice." Her eyes narrow at the thought of her father, a look of disdain but also filled with affection that she would never admit aloud.

"Kindda sounds like you really love that Papa of yours," he teases, smirking at her affronted expression. Her speech had been fluid and poised up until now, so it was refreshing to see her flare up in emotion, with cheeks turned rosy, and a mouth unable to form a reply to his statement.

"So, why are _you_ going to Tokyo?" she diverts the subject, much to his dismay. He still didn't want to be prodded with questions, but that was what he had done to her, so he accepts this turn of events.

"Not really sure, to be honest," he answers nonchalantly. "Mainly for a change of pace, but I haven't really planned anything in advance."

The words 'haven't planned' seemed to trigger her enthusiasm, and she goes on a tirade about the must-see places in Tokyo, giving examples of excellent dishes to try out, while explaining the do's and don'ts of Japanese culture. She reaches in her handbag for her pad of paper, presumably to jot down notes for him, until she realises something more important.

"Did you book any accommodation? Where are you staying?"

He shrugs his shoulders, and she feels a pinch in her stomach that foreshadows another flare of emotion.

"I'll figure that out when I get off the plane," he drawls without looking fazed or worried in the least. She doesn't believe her ears, and she can't stop her eyes from growing wide.

"What? You're crazy! What happens if there are no vacancies?" she exclaims frantically, and he didn't quite understand why she was getting so flustered on his behalf. He had to admit that her concern was endearing.

"I'll figure something out. I mean, worse comes to worst, I can just sleep on the street. I heard Japan's a pretty safe place." He brushes off the topic as if it's really no big deal, but it doesn't sit well with her.

Her eyes lock onto his, and he once again doesn't know what she is thinking. He can only stare back with his usual apathetic expression, but he can't help his brow from rising when he sees her bite her lip, appearing as if she was fighting some inner battle in her mind. The lids of her eyes then shut tightly, and he wonders if he should take back the words he said, maybe lie and say that he indeed had a place to stay. He would do it for her, just to ease her apparent discomfort.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, her lids open to reveal a determined look without a trace of unease. He feels intrigued by this dramatic change, but he continues to stare at her with that same unreadable expression.

"Come and stay at my place," she suggests in a confident tone. "I don't start school until Monday, so I can even show you around Yokohama and Tokyo."

He thinks that she's being genuine, but he is used to people saying things just to be polite, and he doesn't want to make her feel obliged.

"Naw, don't worry about me. You don't have to go out of your way to accommodate a _stranger_." He adds a few chuckles to lighten the situation, and although he is tempted by the idea of spending more time with this girl, he also hopes that she would retract her offer because he really didn't want her to be doing something that she felt uncomfortable with, just for the sake of her duty or pity.

She then offers him her hand, and he only comprehends the gesture when she speaks.

"Maka Albarn," she says firmly, while he takes her hand and she squeezes it with a grip as confident as her voice.

"Soul Evans," he responds airily, still wondering why she initiated this formal introduction.

"Okay, so now we aren't strangers anymore." She smiles at him warmly; his stomach does a backflip as he now understands the reason for her actions. "You're staying at my place, and that's final."

She's so commanding. By the way she had said her name, right down to her handshake, it's almost creepy how natural it feels to obey her words. But he's still wary of her sincerity, since he has barely ever encountered any honest people in his entourage.

"Listen, Maka." He likes the way her name rolls off of his tongue, and he secretly wishes that this will not be the last time to say it. "You _really_ don't have to worry. I'm fine on my own."

"Soul," she replies. He may have liked saying her name, but it's even more addicting to hear her voice saying his. "I'm offering because I _want_ to. So when we get off this plane, you're coming to my apartment. No buts about it."

He couldn't possibly decline, not when she was being so forward, and when he was still curious to discover more about this person. At least now, he would know what to write for his 'intended address in Japan', and he mentally pats himself on the back for his lack of planning.

He sinks deeper into his seat, fully relaxed, while he listens to Maka rant about American airport security and how she never wants to visit the States again. The remainder of this flight was surely going to be entertaining, he thinks to himself.

Letting the wind carry his soul had been a great choice, but he decides to take a break from the constant flow of movement. Resting on cloud nine seemed like a nice place for the time being.

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><p><strong>AN:**

Oh gosh, this was supposed to be a oneshot, with the general premise of 'Soul and Maka need to bang'… but I got wayyyyy too carried away with the theme. So it's going to be a lot longer than expected, but not too drawn out, probably only 2 other parts at most. (and it's rated M because there will be a lemon in the future…)

I haven't seen many (or any?) fanfics exploring Maka's bi-racial identity… I guess most people don't care since she looks Caucasian and the US is multi-cultural anyways, but I always thought it could be an interesting topic to expand. But alas, this story is almost entirely in Soul's perspective, so I can't really get into her brain, which is a bit fail on my part. OTL

Also, I wrote in the present tense, just to try something different. I haven't quite decided if I like it or not; I'm kind of leaning towards "I don't like it" but I'll stick with it till the end of this story at least. I hope it wasn't too awkward to read, whatwith the insane amount of contractions that scream out INFORMAL. I dunno, it's probably just something that I have to get used to...


	2. Amidst the Populace

**See You Later **[ A M I D S T _ T H E _ P O P U L A C E ]

By Stré

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><p><em>…to those longing for touch, to the jet-lagged travellers finding solace, to the lucky souls who have found their place…<em>

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><p>Insomnia hits hard like a whip lashing at his back, smacking him wide awake instead of knocking him out cold. He wonders who is attacking his sleep, and jetlag appears to be the prime suspect, since he has only spent a mere three days in Japan and his body still thinks he is in America. Upon his arrival, he hardly felt any difference with his internal clock: the trek to Maka's apartment had passed in a blur, and he was so tired by all of the travelling that he passed out rather effortlessly that night. The next morning, he had woken up bright and early, ready for his first day of adventure in this foreign land, but by 3PM, his body had slowly shut down as if being shot by a tranquilizer.<p>

Jetlag wasn't the only cause for his lack of sleep because no matter how well he could adjust himself to this new timezone, he could never get used to the fact that the sun rose at_ fuckin' 5AM_. Indeed it was August, and the days were naturally longer in the summer, but that was just too early for his taste, with a city bustling hard at work by 7AM. They weren't kidding when they called Japan 'the land of the rising sun'.

The rays of light poking through the cracks of Maka's curtains aren't that bad, he thinks in retrospect. It's currently dark, with another few hours until sunrise, yet he still can't coax his mind into slumber, perhaps because his back is _aching like a bitch_. He's American, maybe not proud of it, but he grew up with the luxury of a bed, so resting on a futon on this thing she called 'tatami' (basically the floor) was a stark difference compared to his fluffy pillows and mattress that he already longs for.

No matter how he positions his body, his muscles can't relax, and while physical discomfort is certainly whipping him viciously, it's still not the biggest culprit that fuels his insomnia. There is something else that is rousing his senses, making it impossible for him to shut off his brain.

Her scent.

He thought that he would be immune to it by now, or that it would at least have the same comforting quality like on the plane, but it somehow evolved into something with the opposite effect. It's stimulating him. He doesn't notice it during the day, in the open air when they went sightseeing, or even when they returned to her apartment for a home-cooked meal. But when the lights shut, the scent amplifies and spreads like a wave of madness.

It really doesn't help that the source of this scent is lying a mere two feet away from him, also on a futon, on this damn hard floor. If he rolled over, he can easily (accidently) 'sleep' right beside her; maybe his arm would even flail and somehow drape over her abdomen, or even unintentionally snake up her modest chest during his state of 'unconsciousness'.

He dares not peek at her, so he isn't exactly sure which position she's sleeping in— either facing him, lying on her back, or turned the other way—but there are options for each of these possibilities. If it were the first case scenario, his hands didn't need to crawl and touch any of that delectable skin because he would be satisfied with brushing his nose against hers, being face to face, and relaxing in the soothing sound of her soft breaths. Or if his state of 'unconsciousness' was so 'unconscious', it could even mistaken her for a large pillow that he usually hugged at home, and he would pull her close to his chest, embracing the warmth that exuded from her tiny body.

Case number two was less interesting in comparison to the first, but it was definitely the most plausible if he were to 'fake an accident'. Its most appealing perk was the easy opportunity to 'unintentionally' grab her boob because all he had to do was outstretch his arm and 'hopefully' (of course by coincidence) land his hand on the desired area. He admits that her assets are small, but he knows that she doesn't wear a bra under her pyjamas, and the thought of those cute nipples excites him. He wonders if she would squeak in her sleep if he rubbed them the right way, with fingers merely trying to search for his earplugs in the dark, or so he could argue if she questioned his intentions.

Finally, the third scenario held the most potential because it was a bit like the first two combined. He may not be able to brush his nose against hers, but he could instead breathe in _her_ ear from behind, perhaps sending her enticing messages instead of being the one at her mercy. That thin smooth hair would tickle his lips, but he would be able to fully breathe in the scent of her delicious shampoo, and maybe the intoxication in such a strong dosage would finally put him to sleep. His arm had an ever better access to her chest, reaching over, pulling her close with a breast (accidently) in his palm. Her firm ass would bump against his groin; hopefully she wouldn't awaken from the hard knock on her door…

He realises that these three scenarios are extremely promising, and he grows more curious at the thought of putting them into action. All he needed was to time it right, to know what to say if she grew suspicious or wary when she woke up, and to act completely nonchalant about the situation or even tease her nearly non-existent bust if he grew desperate for insults.

He steels his resolve, and decides that he's really going to pull this through. Once again, his curiosity won over his reason; he will act on impulse, with the first step of opening his eyes and turning his head to look at her. He counts to three, like the number of possible positions he will be working with.

1…

2…

3…

He raises the curtains shrouding his eyes, to reveal just what kind of play he will have to stage. _What the fuck_.

She is lying on her _stomach_.

And somehow, he doesn't have the mental capacity to think of a new accidental scenario. He feels the excitement deflate as the anticipation completely vanishes, immediately replaced by exhaustion from the overwork of his brain. He finally falls asleep.

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><p>"Hey Soul, do you think I need to bring a jacket tonight?" Early September is still warm in Tokyo, but the evening's temperature can be rather unpredictable, especially when she's only wearing a light short-sleeved shirt, paired with one of her infamous miniskirts.<p>

"Just bring one if you're worried," he answers impatiently, feeling a little nervous about the upcoming event. After his ten-day battle with jetlag, he finally came out victorious, and began to feel completely at ease with his surroundings. Of course, Maka was a great help, and although she was back in school, she seemed to spend all her spare time with him, assuring him that he could stay at her place for as long as he wanted. However, tonight he was faced with a new challenge: he would be meeting her group of friends for the first time, and the thought of strangers and a party left him agitated. He didn't want to worry Maka, so he hopes that the impatient tone he just gave her wouldn't reveal any of his unease.

Much to his favour, she isn't fazed by his attitude and she continues to take her time, searching in her closet for something appropriate, to finally settle for a long black cardigan.

"Okay, I'm ready," she says while flashing him a smile, maybe waiting for a compliment that he doesn't end up giving. She does look cute tonight, heck she always did, but she seemed to have put a little more effort curling the ends of her usual lank hair, and dusting subtle makeup that accentuates her delicate features. He wonders if there is someone that she wants to impress tonight, and the thought of it being anyone aside from him makes him want to grow a blade from his arm and slice the bastard in half.

"All right, lets go then." He slips on his loafers while she fiddles with the buckles of her boots. He likes the way she crouches on one knee, her slim pale legs looking all the more enticing. The stance makes her look like she's preparing for battle, which reassures him that he's not alone in the obstacle to come.

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><p>As they approach the meeting point, Maka breaks into a smile and picks up her pace when she spots a figure in the distance with violet hair. He feels a twinge of jealousy at the sight of her excitement, and he wonders what this <em>friend<em> means to her, but his suspicions are washed away when he sees that the person is dressed in a long black dress that clung snugly to its linear body. He was pretty sure that he/she was female.

Maka glomps him/her from behind, and a surprised yell that sounded fairly deep, passably masculine, was uttered from his/her mouth. Soul retracts his judgement; that voice sounded too ambiguous to be female. He watches them exchange greetings and quick small talk (more on Maka's part), while his eyes search for an Adam's apple, but a white high collar fully covers the neck, so he can't see a damn thing.

"Soul, this is my friend _Krunevichovna Gorokhin_," Maka announces and then mutters something in Japanese to Kru..na..whatever, who then awkwardly nods in acknowledgement. "He's a foreign exchange student from Russia, so he doesn't speak any English because he's here to brush up his Japanese."

Oh… So it's a_ HE?_

Soul tries to make eye contact but Kru-o-something winces and averts his gaze. He then pulls out one hand from the pocket of his jacket, and offers it to the cowering stranger who doesn't immediately take it.

"Hello, Kru..vik—hang on Maka, can you repeat his name?" Soul turns to ask.

"Just call him Kurona, or Chrona if it's easier," she supplies, while Chrona stands in silence, throwing wary glances at the outstretched hand, but finally musters the courage and grips it very lightly, a handshake so weak that makes Soul further question his gender.

"H-h-hi, Sou-ru," the shy boy manages to say, smiling lightly but still not making eye contact. Maka seems pleased with their 'interaction' but Soul silently prays for the awkwardness to end because he doesn't know what else to do or say after this.

His prayers to God are answered when he hears—

"YA- HOOOO! OIIIII~~~ MAKA!" bellows a distinct male voice, as if he was divine intervention in the flesh.

The trio pivots on spot, to see a burly guy with shocking blue hair rushing towards them, while a normal Japanese girl follows him closely, trying to keep up with his ridiculously fast pace. When the pair finally collides and the group becomes five, Soul immediately feels left out because they're all yapping away in Japanese, even Chrona drops in a few words, but mostly when he's being directly addressed.

They must be talking about him because he can recognize the Japanese-version of his name, _Souru_. Maybe Maka is explaining how they met, or recounting the many events in the last ten days—she seemed to have spent all her time with him, so her friends were probably not in the loop with the news of her life. The normal-looking Japanese girl discretely throws curious glances at him, suppressing her lips to curve into a smile, as if tacitly saying that she approves of him. It makes him feel self-conscious, but he ignores it by distracting his thoughts with music; his eyes now look glazed and unfocused, an expression that Maka is quick to notice.

"Sorry Soul, I just got carried away cuz I haven't seen them since before I left for the US. Anyways, so this is Tsubaki Nakatsukasa," she points at the conventionally-Japanese-looking timid girl who releases that smile she had been holding, "and this loudmouth idiot is Shoutarou Kurosawa."

Shou-whatever didn't seem to appreciate something Maka said because he barks back something in Japanese, then faces Soul, while yelling at the top of his lungs—

"BURAKKU S'TAHH YO~~" His gaze was strong, and even though Soul couldn't understand any of those words, he somehow knew that they'd get along.

"Ugh, just call him BlackStar," Maka interjects, while looking a little annoyed by her obnoxious friend's antics. She then explains how his ancestry originates from the _Burakumin_, a minority group in Japan who were essentially the outcasts in earlier times and suffered discrimination till this day, but he wasn't afraid of hiding his roots. Moreover, the first part of his surname signifies the colour "black", so the nickname fit well into place.

"But where does the Star come in?" wonders Soul, which causes her eyes to slit in further irritation.

"Well, _I_ like to think that it's from the first kanji of his name, Shou, which can be read as 'star'…but _he_ just chose it cuz he thinks the word sounds cool." At that, Soul is sold. He inexplicably knows that he would get along with BlackStar, despite not being able to verbally communicate. He flashes him a grin that gets reciprocated, in a moment of mutual bromance, and Maka's irritation doesn't have the time to reach its peak because another character enters the scene.

"Good evening, Maka," says a well-dressed Japanese gentlemen that can _actually_ speak impeccable English.

"Oh, Shin-kun! I didn't think you'd make it!" She embraces him in a short hug, catching the attention of a certain white-haired fellow. "Meet my friend Soul. He's from America."

Soul just nods casually, not feeling the urge to speak since Maka has already done the introduction for him.

"Pleased to meet you Soul." The prim young man removes his fedora, revealing three peculiar parallel white stripes dyed on the left side of his hair, and curtsies a polite bow. "My name is Shinichi Kido. But please call me Kid if it's easier for you to remember."

"Sure thing, Kid," he responds lazily, still trying to digest the whole situation. Maka sure had an interesting entourage, with all of the men sporting bizarre hair. That must be the reason why she never questioned his own white shock.

"Ok great," she announces while clasping her hands together. "Now where are we heading? There's that nice _izakaya_ down the street."

BlackStar, who was having a one-sided conversation with Chrona, seemed to have heard the only Japanese word in that sentence because he immediately turns to Maka and a fierce argument erupts. Kid jumps in to mediate, along with Tsubaki who also attempts to control the rising flames, while Chrona watches from the sidelines and tries to speak up but the words extinguish before leaving his throat.

Soul is left out once again, and he takes the opportunity to collect his thoughts. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the sounds, but all he can make out are the words "Maka" (or was it baka?), 'eh-re-bei-tah' (kindda sounds like elevator), and 'karaoke' (which he's familiar with the meaning). When his vision returns, he's confronted with a flustered Maka that took a break from the bickering, leaving Kid and Tsubaki at the frontline.

"What's going on?" Soul asks with caution, hoping that she wouldn't direct her anger at him.

"BlackStar's being an idiot. He's insisting that we go to the karaoke place because he _claims_ that it'll be more fun than the izakaya. He's giving the lame argument that the elevator's broken at the place I suggested, so we'd have to walk up ten flights of stairs to get to it…but he's just making excuses because he climbs stairs on _his leisure time_," she spits out scathingly, then lets out a frustrated sigh before continuing, "gosh, he's just being a selfish jerk, and doesn't seem to realise that Tsubaki, Chrona and I do NOT sing. Kid may sing when drunk, but he's got a surprisingly crazy tolerance to alcohol. Anyways, so it really just leaves him with the mic, so I don't get why we should be going to a karaoke place. "

"And what about me?" inquires Soul, causing Maka's brow to rise. "Is it all just Japanese songs?"

"You _sing_?" she exclaims, looking very sceptical.

"On the occasion," he answers simply, shrugging as if his response was to be expected. "It ain't hard, so why don't you? You've got a pretty nice voice."

He seemed to have stumped her once again because her cheeks flush, her brows furrow in confusion, while her mouth hesitates to form any words in a very Chrona-like manner.

"I…I've… never tried," she reveals meekly, a tone opposite to her usual confidence, which causes Soul to smirk deviously. He enjoys this new sight, and decides that he wants to see more of it.

"Okay, then it's settled. We're going to karaoke." He grins with more mischief, and she flares in anger, itching to smack him in the skull.

"SOUL! No! You can't go on his side," she whines lividly, but he's already making his way to the heated discussion. When Soul speaks, everyone (including BlackStar) quiets down, and when Kid translates the words that he had said, the blue-haired loudmouth immediately bounces in joy, pulling Soul into a strong bromantic embrace.

It's all over. Now she's the one dreading the next few hours, and in contrast to Soul who managed to hide all traces of foreboding, she lets her mood clearly show. But Kid quickly finds a way to console her.

"Hey Maka, did I mention that Liz and Patty are in town?" he slips in casually, and her face instantly lights up from the news.

"No you didn't! They're here to visit?" she asks excitedly, eager to include more friends in the mix.

"Yes, they've been staying at my place, and they were going to come with me, but Liz was still attending her appointment at the hair salon. I can get them to join us for karaoke when she's done, which should be shortly since we've been arguing for such a long time."

"Please do that! I want to see them, and they like to sing. Especially Patty." This was the perfect chance for her to evade the mic, since the Thompsons would be more than willing to monopolize the spotlight.

"Consider it done," he says with a poised smile. Kid whips out his phone and composes a text message at lighting speed, and receives a response in an equal (symmetrical, he calls it) time frame. He flashes another smile to Maka, as if to say that it's all taken care of.

Maybe the night wouldn't be so bad, both for Soul and for her.

* * *

><p>He takes that back. It's bad.<p>

Don't get him wrong; the evening had its good points. After Maka gained back her enthusiasm, she and BlackStar settled their qualms, and the whole group felt cohesive again. Even Soul already felt comfortable with this new crowd, which was a milestone in his life, since it usually took him months before remotely feeling at ease with a person.

He loved their karaoke system. In his experience back in North America, karaoke was done in a public setting, on a dingy stage in a bar, singing while drunk in front of an audience of strangers. But Japan had class, and it was instead done in a sound-proof private room, with speakers of great quality and disco light above, while offering a wide selection of dishes to order from, or at least that's what was available at this particular place. Soul suspected that Maka insisted on going to one that was of higher quality; he distinctively remembers her karate-chopping BlackStar in the head when he was about to enter a sketchy building, and she ended up dragging his unconscious body to their current location.

The plates of food arrived in quantities meant for collective eating, much like a buffet, and they could call any time to order more, from that special phone connected to the wall. But the best part ought to be this thing called 'nomihodai' (Maka had to repeat it many times for him to remember the word, but he'll never forget it); it basically meant 'all-you-can-drink', and they certainly weren't shy of making their money's worth, chugging copious amounts at an alarming rate, buzzing up the party that had only just begun.

On second thought, 'nomihodai' wasn't quite the best part because _Maka_ was far better. She sat by his side throughout the whole evening, her thigh flush against his, like on that airplane where they had first met. He was tempted to place his arm over her shoulder or a hand on her leg…or maybe he needed more beer.

But it all went downhill when the two Thompsons had finally arrived because they shifted the mood of this social setting. Patty ran straight for the mic and sang energetically in duet with BlackStar, while Kid and Maka introduced Liz to Soul, and the four engaged in conversation. The familiarity of hearing his native tongue felt very comforting, and Liz had pretty good taste in music, so they got into quite the intricate discussion about jazz, sharing their experiences about live performances of the many musicians that most people have never even heard of. It was then that Maka started to act a bit strange, or maybe she was bored with the topic because she never made any attempt to speak up, which was very unlike her usual know-it-all attitude. Eventually, she left his side and went to go sit next to _Chrona_.

And that is when the horribly bad feeling settled in his gut.

He watches how closely she sits to that awkward gangly excuse of a male, their thighs also pressed against one another, with smiles plastered on both of their faces. Soul was never one to judge, but he just couldn't understand why she was friends with this oddball who was supposedly male but wore a _fuckin'_ dress. Chrona may seem innocent and quiet, but as Soul's ears catch the pitch of Maka's carefree laughter, he feels that the freak is attacking him personally, slashing a deep gash across the chest, and fatally wounding his pride because that girl should have been laughing from his words and not by the purple-haired weirdo's.

It could be the alcohol that's making him sensitive, but he feels that Chrona is also infecting his blood, making it boil and tainting it with dark jet-black thoughts. Soul stands on the brink of insanity, but he manages to suppress the red demon that's telling him to let loose and claim back what's rightfully his.

They both get up and leave the room, yet no one seems to notice but him. BlackStar is still hogging the microphone, while Patty drags a reluctant Kid to join in. The newly formed trio performs a song with Tsubaki awkwardly holding the tambourine, giving it light off-beat jingles, and Liz sits back to enjoy the sight, roaring in hysterical laughter when Kid hits an uncharacteristically high note as if someone was squeezing his family jewels.

Soul doesn't pay attention to the chaos around him because his inebriated mind concentrates on other thoughts. Did they just go to the bathroom? But why _together_?

He can't take it anymore. He rushes out of the room, only to find himself in a deserted hallway without any trace of their whereabouts. His suspicion had been the bathrooms, so he heads down the hall in the opposite direction of the elevators, where he quickly spots the universal stick figure signs. No matter how drunk he is, he refuses to peep in the women's, so he checks the men's to see if Chrona is there. It's empty. And he cusses because he has to think of another possibility, which is rather difficult with a head slightly spinning from all the alcohol he consumed.

Maybe they went outside for a smoke, but that's kind of ridiculous since every room in this building allows smoking, and Maka hates tobacco, even when it was second-hand, so there's no way that she would accompany a friend that indulges in this bad habit. Soul drags his feet back to their private room, but stops in his tracks when he sees Maka come out of the elevator, alone.

His mind clears as his adrenaline picks up, and those lazy feet turn into fervent strides that lead him right in front of her surprised face. She doesn't have time to react before he guides her to the side, nearly sandwiching her against the wall.

"Maka, where did you go?" he demands aggressively, a gruff tone that she doesn't appreciate one bit. She's also intoxicated, so it doesn't take much for her temper to lose control.

"What's it to you?" she bites back with rivalling aggression. It fuels the demon in his mind, and suddenly, he just doesn't give a shit about her feelings.

"Nothing really," he responds sarcastically. "It's just that if you ran off with a certain _someone_, I wouldn't be able to get back home cuz I don't have the key to your place."

"Oh fuck off. So I'm just an apartment to you? Well you can sleep on the street for all I care." She tries to push him aside, but he stands his ground and only cages her in with more force, leaning so closely to her ear that she can feel his hot breath against her neck.

"Better on the street, than in the arms of a purple-haired freak," he mumbles but she can hear him loud and clear.

"Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" She's absolutely livid, but also extremely hurt by his remark because it doesn't seem like he was the least bit remorseful of his words, and her own demon that she had been battling throughout the evening was soon going to gain freedom.

"Where's Chrona?" he tries to ask neutrally, but it's impossible to hide his contempt.

"Where's _Liz_?" she retorts back, the demon had successfully escaped. He backs up to face her and looks straight in those piercing green eyes, with his own appearing completely dumbfounded because her question had seemed very random to him. _Liz? Why would she bring her up?_

When Soul doesn't throw back a reply, she continues to rant.

"Why don't you just go stay with her... getting all chummy at first sight…you can talk about jazz and music all you fuckin' want…" She stares at the floor to hide her embarrassment, but the blush that reaches her ears blows her cover, and he's quick to understand the situation. Suddenly, his own jealousy becomes trivial.

"Stupid boys, always going after the bombshells…Her hair's so lush and sunshine blonde…not like my stupid drab ashy colour that no one seems to want to compliment… even tried doing something different to my hair tonight… but in comes Liz just back from the salon…not like I can compete with that...Ugh, guys are so superficial and such _pigs_… always going for the nice figure and a damn bigger rack than mine… You're just the same Soul, just like all the other guys, and just like my stupid fuckin' lying philandering useless papa, so go ahead and just _leave_ cuz I know that you desperately want to tap her a-MMMmmm—

The end of her sentence gets muffled by his moving lips against hers, and her mind is slow to process just what was happening, so she doesn't have the time to fortify her defences when his tongue easily trespasses the entrance and reaches for hers.

This fuckin' night was a disaster, but if he could take advantage of her at least once, it'll all be somewhat worth it, or so says the demon in the back of his mind. Soul's righteous right hand gently cups her cheek, massaging his thumb on the insanely soft skin of her face, while his devious left gropes another type of cheek, sneaking up her skirt and grasping that firm sweet bun of her backside. It continues to creep like a beggar lurking in the shadows, sliding inside her panties and edging towards the crack where that damp hole lies beneath.

Meanwhile, his tongue is leading a romantic waltz with her clumsy inexperience, like a charming prince taming a shrew; he kisses her tenderly with a hand keeping their dancing lashes steady, and she's quick to learn the steps despite being overwhelmed by his passionate attention. His long fingers then caress her earlobe, in an attempt to stimulate her nerves in a gentlemanly manner, but the index of the deviant _begs_ to differ as it nudges even closer to her most private part. It's seeking for shelter, and when Maka does not refuse its incessant scratches on her door, it finally takes refuge in that warm deep cavern.

But lord was it hot and humid down there. The beggar can barely breathe in such a confinement, so it takes a breather by walking outside, only to quickly enter back into the comforting hole; the pattern is continued as Soul strokes her gently, receiving her pleasured muffled moans in his mouth that's still firmly latched onto hers.

To chose between a classy prince or a dirty beggar, most would favour the former but she couldn't decide which was better. In fact, a part of her wanted to see the prince break down and descend to lowly ways, but the ounce of consciousness that was surprisingly left intact in the back of her mind told her that this wasn't the right place to do such a thing. The pleasure felt _fuckin'_ amazing, but it needed to be postponed.

"Soul," she pants, as she pulls back from the intense makeout session, "lets take it back home."

His face is expressionless, and he doesn't say a word; he just grabs her wrist and heads towards the elevators.

"No hang on!" She shakes herself out of his grasp. "We gotta say goodbye, and I have to pay Kid who'll handle the bill."

He supposes that he can wait a little while longer. It'll all be worth it. Especially since he now knows that their attraction is mutual.

* * *

><p>He can't wait any longer.<p>

Stumbling in the door, he pushes her down and discards her complex boots in her stead, all the while fondling her legs, and taking lewd peaks up her skirt as she sits on the floor with those perfect stems split wide apart. He scoops her up bridal-style and brings her to the bedroom without a bed; that damn _tatami_ will have to do because he didn't bother fetching their futon and covers.

She's placed down with utmost care, showered with quick light kisses, while he unwraps the present he had been dying to open since that fateful encounter on that flight. He wouldn't have admitted it back then, but he now owns up to the magnitude of his desire towards this girl. His pounding heart along with the unbearable bulge in his groin are the clear physical signs of his want, but her scent lures him into a deeper bond, a connection that taps into the realms of spirituality, and he refuses to believe that he is being swayed by alcohol because he _really_ does mean the cheesy thoughts that are flowing in his mind, and there's no way that he would be this hard if he were drunk.

Her cardigan, shirt, and skirt are thrown to the side, but he leaves her in her bra and panties so that she is left with the last bits of modesty. She doesn't seem to complain or voice her opinion like she usually did; in fact, she was rather quiet and mellow while he was undressing her. His eyes lock on to that gorgeous slim figure and he cannot understand why she would feel insecure or belittled when compared to Liz. Her small bust matched perfectly with that tiny waist, and he remembers the longing he had for her cute nipples that he has yet to see. He unclasps her bra.

Uh-oh, bad idea. His pants feel _too_ tight and he is aching, nearly writhing in pain from the sudden growth spurt of his third leg. It's not a matter of want anymore: it's a desperate _need_. But alas, he would never fully become a beggar because he was a true gentleman, and he wanted her to enjoy it as much as himself. Women needed to be buttered up before being served for dinner, so he quickly gets started on the preparations.

He reaches for a perk nipple, testing to see what kind of soft moans could be uttered from her adorable mouth, but as he rubs it between his digits, his ears become disappointed when they hear nothing but silence. Peculiarly enough, her breathing sounded rather deep, and her eyes that had been lazily half-opened, seemingly lustful, were now—

"Fuckin' asleep," he curses aloud, to an inexistent audience because the only other person in this room is comfortably passed out.

There was no way that he would try to wake her up because he secretly enjoys the sight of her sleeping form, particularly in its stark nudity. He can touch her all he wants, or sleep next to her in any type of position—whether face-to-face, holding her while she lies on her back, or spooning from behind— and best of all, he no longer had to worry about formulating the excuse that his body had been 'unconscious' or that it was an 'accident'.

He takes out their futon, and picks up the sleeping princess to place her on a softer surface, so that she doesn't complain about back aches the next morning (not that the futon made much of a difference in his opinion). He then discards his own clothes to get more comfortable, and settles down by her side, pulling her close like he had rehearsed in his head weeks prior. As he tugs the covers over their resting bodies, he realises that there will be pain tomorrow, but he would always place her well-being before his and protect her from all harm, namely the lust that is thankfully cooling off.

Even if he will be bludgeoned in the balls until they were bruised blue, he knew that the whipping lashes of insomnia would not abuse him tonight. She fits perfectly in his arms and her soothing breaths send him to the greatest deep sleep he had ever experienced. Not even the early rising sun would wake him up.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

Okay, this ended up being way longer than expected, so I might divide my last part in two if it also gets developed extensively. I had to cut off many more details that I had planned in my mind, mainly trivial stuff about the other SE cast so it wasn't important to the whole plot. But since I'm rather neurotic, the footnote below has all the extras, just in case anyone was interested in reading my thoughts on the other characters (or if it inspires you to write your own AU in this Japan-setting, feel free to use it as a base!)

Thanks for reading! ^_^ And don't be shy to comment if anything annoys you, or if you have any suggestions for this Japanese theme.

* * *

><p><span>NON-REFERENTIAL FOOTNOTES<span>

[1] Chrona, aka _Krunevichovna Gorokhin. _Where did he go? TO ITALY. Kidding. He just went home in the middle of the karaoke party. He's male because it worked well with the plot, but his crazy mother always wanted him to be a girl, so ever since birth, she dressed him in girl's clothing. Even when he moved out, she keeps on sending him dresses. Finally, his mother passes away (from a brutal brutal death), and the black dress he wears is a sign of mourning. I don't speak Russian, so I only found the name _Krunevichovna _on the net; it's apparently a female name, which reinforces his mother's obsession of having a daughter. _Gorokhin_ is a Russian surname according to wikipedia, and it looked like Gorgon so I chose it. If anyone Russian is reading this, and the name sounds absolutely ridiculous, please pardon my ignorance!

[2] BlackStar, aka _Shoutarou Kurosawa_. Not sure if everyone understood the dissection of his name, but in a nutshell, Japanese names are usually composed of characters (called kanji) that all have meanings. Each kanji can be read differently, so the one for 'star' can be read as 'hoshi', 'sei' or 'shou'. The 'shou' in the name _Shoutarou_ isn't written with the 'star' kanji, but Maka drew the connection because she's a nerd, lol. Also, I thought it was a cool coincidence to link him to 'burakumin', which has nothing to do with 'burakku' (how the Japanese pronounce 'Black'), but they're a minority group that faced discrimination because of their low-status in the feudal hierarchy (they were the ones in charge of 'impure' jobs like butchers, tanners, executioners, and anything involving dirty work). I thought it was a good parallel to BlackStar's 'hoshi clan' ancestry, and how he has to live with that burden when he never committed any crimes or even grew up with the clan.

[3] Tsubaki Nakatsukasa. She's Japanese, both in this story and in canon SE. I didn't think much about her because she's essentially in her element (i.e. in her country of origin).

[4] Death the Kid, aka _Shinichi Kido_. Oh lord, I racked my brain for any name starting with 'de', and I couldn't think of any; only stuff starting with 'dai' came to mind (like daichi, daisuke, daikichi, etc.)… Finally, I just gave up and thought _Shinichi_ sounded appropriate, since it at least has the 'shini' which means death. (but for the record, the kanji for this name has nothing to do with death; it's separated as 'shin'-'ichi'.) Kid in this story is Japanese, but he comes from an affluent family that made him learn English at a young age, so it's really impeccable but a little too formal at times. He met the Thompsons while on a trip to America, and they've been friends for a long time. ^_^

[5] Liz and Patty Thompson. Not much to say because I didn't think extensively about them… but Patty has a knack for picking up the Japanese language really fast, so she's able to sing all those songs with BlackStar. :D

Ugh. That was a long footnote. I think too much.


	3. Along the Tracks

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

By Stré

* * *

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

* * *

><p>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.<p>

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.

* * *

><p>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.<p>

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.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

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. ^_~


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